Our Future is Now
by Nutzkie
Summary: Einstein taught us that space and time are two sides of a single continuum; as real and malleable as a piece of clay. So what happens when humans put such knowledge to use... when theories become reality? The unwitting souls aboard the greatest voyage in history are about to discover what happens when the laws of physics are bent in ways ol' mother nature never intended!
1. Fire & Ice

**Usual Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

Alright! We all know the drill, so there's no need to go into a great deal of detail here. After all, disclaimers such as this are the literary equivalent of a speed bump at the end of your driveway. So let's just get through this quick and clean, and then move on to the reason that we're all _really_ here.

_Titanic_ is the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox, and about a half-dozen or so other production studios who managed to snag a piece of that action back in the late nineties. I personally don't own squat, so if you're ticked off and looking to sue, good luck, 'cause you can't get blood from a turnip. I hope you hire an expensive lawyer and run up a _huge_ legal bill, dip wad! (Gawd, being broke can be so liberating!)

Beyond that, anything not found in the movie or on the ocean floor could be construed as mine, I suppose. Although I'm sure there's some legal-eagle out there somewhere who would relish the opportunity to argue otherwise.

In short, the movie belongs to Jimmy Cameron, the profits belong to the studios, the Titanic belongs to the ages, this software belongs to Bill Gates, my kidneys belong to my bookie, and all your base belong to us!

Onward and upward…

* * *

**~ Chapter One ~**

_**Fire & Ice**_

It was late… Beyond late… Past the hour when the respectable people of sense and society had long since retired for the evening, leaving the shadows and crevices of the night to the disreputable denizens of darkness. Carpeted corridors that by day's shining light served as conduits for the cream of society's crop now stood eerie and empty, void of vibrancy of life that defined them. The cheerful chattering of ladies' gossip and businessmen's boasts was replaced by the oppressive sound of silence. It was the witching hour, with people of means sleeping snug in their beds, their last valued vestiges of consciousness long since surrendered to slumber's sweet embrace.

…With one notable exception.

The ticking of the clock on the mantle resonated through her ears like a mechanical hammer, pounding out its incessant cadence as she tossed and turned beneath the lightly starched sheets. Her thoughts were a swirling tornado of turmoil, banishing all notion of sleep as her mind grappled with the overwhelming circumstances before it. What was she to do? Betray her obligations? Betray her heart?

She sat up in bed, emerald eyes staring blindly into the darkness of the posh stateroom as she momentarily abandoned the quest for sleep. Why did everything have to be so damn complicated? It had all been so certain just a few days before, hadn't it? They would sail to New York, take the train to Philadelphia, and she would be married to Cal, just as had been planned for her. Granted, it would have been a marriage of misery, but she was expecting that fact, and had come to enjoy a sort of uneasy peace with it. After all, women of her station had been living with such arranged marriages for generations. Her mother and grandmother before her had endured such an existence. There was no reason that she wouldn't endure as well.

…And then she had met _him,_ and everything had been turned so wonderfully upside-down.

Meeting Jack had opened her eyes to so many things. She now understood that there was far more to life than cotillions and high teas and the rules and restrictions of so-called society. She understood that life was for living: Not for the ambitions of others, or for the expectations of one's social class, but for one's self. There was a world beyond the servants and corsets and idle gossip and self-obsession that so defined her current existence: A world that was far wider and brighter than anything she ever dared imagine, and she wanted to be a part of it.

But alas, she could not… because of the other thing that meeting Jack had made her realize.

For she now recognized the truth of her existence: That her pampered life of privilege was in fact a great gilded cage, locking her away from the life she truly desired. All around her was beauty and the beckoning call of freedom, so tantalizingly close that she could almost taste them. And yet they remained just beyond her grasp. Her world was a prison, beautiful and bejeweled, but a prison nonetheless, and it was slowly strangling the life from her.

"_They've got you in a glass jar like some butterfly, and you'll die if you don't break out."_ He had told her that afternoon in the gymnasium. _"Maybe not right away, 'cause you're strong. But sooner or later the fire in you is gonna to go out."_

But was she really? Was she as strong as he seemed to think she was? Did she have it in her to break away from everything she had ever known and strike out on her own? Did she have what it would take to blaze her own trail in life… to forge her own future? Jack may have seemed certain, but in her own mind she remained thoroughly unconvinced.

And what about her mother? For the sake of all honesty, Ruth's financial worries were well founded. Her late father had indeed left their family deeply in debt, the fiscal realities of which were becoming harder and harder to conceal. The danger of falling from the graces of high society was a very real one, and from their position it would be a very long fall indeed. It was a prospect that held her mother completely terrified, and even from her own relatively isolated position, the sense of dread and despair was nearly palpable.

Taken all together, it was just too much to deal with. So many questions… So many considerations… And no matter which path she chose, it seemed that someone close to her would wind up being irreparably hurt in the process. Her position was untenable, but it was still hers, and sleep or not, the coming of the dawn would not itself bring the change she so desperately craved.

She needed more information, she finally concluded after several agonizing minutes of sitting alone in the darkness. She needed something else to go on: A fact or circumstance whose weight would tip the scales of determination in one direction or the other. A "deciding factor" was what she required.

Returning her crimson locks to the pillow, she beckoned sleep once more, somewhat reassured by the plan that she had made. It may not have been the decision that she desired, but at least a path to that decision was now clear: Following the morning's breakfast she would go below decks and spend the day with Jack, or at least as much of the day as she possibly could. Then, after a full day of having experienced his world in all its unrefined glory, she would decide. It would be a momentous decision… one apt to irrevocably alter the course of her entire life. But it was nonetheless necessary, and she alone would be the one to make it.

…One way or another.

* * *

The faint glow was all but invisible as it slipped a few ethereal tendrils beneath the wooden door and into the corridor beyond. Even if a passer-by had been present to see it, the chances of such an observation being made were miniscule within the confines of the brightly lit passage whose white walls and planked floor banished all other forms of illumination from their midst.

But within the darkened pantry room, the story was very different. The ghostly glow filled the cramped space, reflecting off the polished copper cylinder of the freshwater cistern and bathing the pine-fronted cabinets with its eerie blue hue. In the corner, the lone occupant of the room sat huddled on a pile of soiled linens, staring intently at the source of the glow, his attention seemingly transfixed by the flickering aura before him.

Suddenly, a faint knocking on the door startled his concentration, causing him to nearly drop the object of his attention. Cursing to himself, he reluctantly turned his gaze too the door and wondered who this unwelcome intruder could possibly be.

He didn't need to wait long to find out.

"Hey now, Jackie. Are ye in there, laddie?" A familiar voice called out from the far side of the door.

"Right here, Tommy." He sighed in annoyance. "C'mon in. It's open."

The door swung open to admit the owner of the thick Scottish accent, momentarily flooding the small space with light, forcing him to squint and shield his eyes. Somewhat mercifully, Tommy closed the door behind him, plunging the closet-like room into darkness once more.

"Fer' the love of Saint Andrews laddie, what th' 'ell are ye doin' sittin' 'ere in the dark?" he asked perplexedly, noting what had become a regular facet of his companion's strange behavior as of late.

Jack responded with an annoyed grunt.

"There's nobody here but us right now, you know." He pointedly observed. "You can drop the whole _Highlander_ shtick."

There was a long pause as both young men considered this statement.

"Alright, fair 'nuff." Tommy shrugged, crossing his arms and leaning up against the door. "But my question still stands. What the heck are you doing in here? Have you volunteered to be a pillowcase or something?" He gestured to the pile beneath his friend.

"I was just checking on a few things." Jack grumbled in response, turning his attention back to the device in his hands.

"Uh-huh. Just like you've been 'checking' on things almost every night since we left Southampton." Tommy observed with growing irritation. "Do you even know how big of a risk you're taking with this little obsession?" he asked. "Granted, I appreciate the fact that you've at least got the good sense to sequester yourself. But this door doesn't even have a working lock. Someone could waltz right in at any moment. Do you realize what it would mean if that were to happen?"

"Listen, it's no big deal!" Jack defensively responded.

"No! _You_ listen, Jackie!" Tommy shot back, stepping forward and snatching the object of Jack's attention from his hands. "Do you understand what this thing is?"

Jack looked at Tommy as though he had just asked him what color an orange is.

"It's an iPhone… _Obviously!"_ he sighed in exasperation.

"It's a machine with no moving parts!" Tommy corrected. "Now I think we should both pause to let that little fact sink in for a moment, because according the understanding of the universe that these people have, this is _supposed_ to be a physical impossibility. It's something that _cannot_ exist, according to their comprehension of reality. They've got no concept of what a transistor even is, let alone an integrated circuit. They're just now getting used to vacuum tubes, for cryin' out loud! Heck, it was only fifteen years ago that they even discovered the _electron!_ Now can you even begin to imagine the collective freak-out we'd see if this sort of technology were to be suddenly dropped in their laps? To us it may only be a child's plaything, but to them it's a one-way trip straight through the looking glass!"

"Yeah, I know! I know!" Jack relented, throwing his hands up in resignation. "I get what you're sayin'. It's just that… well… Things are kinda complicated right now."

"Well enlighten me then." Tommy begged, leaning back against the door once more and spreading his arms wide in askance. "Lay your problems at the feet of the master."

Jack sighed heavily. He was reluctant to be sharing such information with anyone, but given the corner he was in, (both literally and figuratively), he didn't seem to have much choice.

"It all started the other night when I was looking at pictures of shoes." He began to explain.

"Wondering what to wear the prince's ball, Cinderella?" Tommy smirked.

"Oh, that's not what I mean and you know it!" Jack shot back. "It's when they find shoes on the bottom…"

"Yeah, yeah… I know the story." Tommy waved off the explanation, leaning forward to glance at the screen in his hand. "When a body decomposes at depth, the tannic acid in leather acts as a preservative, so after a while the only thing left to mark the spot is the shoes and the belt and stuff like that. It's poignant, but it's hardly a reason to go all _Imelda Marcos_ on us." He looked down at the digital device and studied the image with curiosity.

"Or _Liz Taylor,_ for that matter." He added with a raised eyebrow. "Although I gotta admit, this _is_ a rather impressive piece of ice you've got here. Say, what do you suppose a rock like that goes for in this day and age?"

"Gimme that!" Jack snapped, lashing out and grabbing the phone back from Tommy. "And at the risk of seeming rude, why don't we both agree to just stop talking about this and leave it alone, huh?" Jack shot back defensively. "Think we can do that?"

"I'd love to Jackie, but there're bigger issues at stake here." Tommy sighed, gingerly massaging the bridge of his nose. "And just for the sake of making sure we're all on the same page, this wouldn't have anything to do with that upper-deck gal you met Wednesday night, would it?"

Jack's downcast grimace was all the answer Tommy needed. He sighed and crossed his arms, leaning back against the door as he contemplated how many times in the past he'd seen this very same movie play out. It was always the same script, he'd learned over the years, and it never seemed to have a happy ending.

"You knew the risks of this mission when you accepted it, Jack." He softly offered after several moments of silence. "They told us about it during the briefings… The dangers of becoming emotionally involved in the subject."

"Yeah, I know." Jack forlornly sighed. "And I really thought I was ready for all that. But then I met her, and well… Things just sort of happened to happen."

"It's a chance we all take, doing this sort of work." Tommy also sighed, staring philosophically at the ceiling. "It's a strange experience, walking amongst ghosts like this. Knowing the numbers… knowing what's about to happen. But in the end, the mission has to come first. We're not here to change history… At least not without a damn good reason. Our job is to simply learn the finer details of the story and all the other stuff that the history books have left out. We observe, document, report, and get the hell out of Dodge when it all hits the fan."

"Thanks, Tommy. I appreciate the sentiment. I really do." Jack admitted with a shake of his head. "But I hope you'll understand when I say that it really doesn't make me feel any better."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't." Tommy shrugged, regaining his feet and turning toward the door. "But that's the reality we all face, whether we like it or not. We're only observers in this world. Not participants."

"Thanks just the same though."

"Don't mention it." Tommy grinned through the shadows between them. "You can take a few more minutes if you want, but try not to be too long. I meant what I said about someone walking in."

"Don't worry. I gotcha." Jack smiled in return. "I'll be done in a sec."

With a final glance, Tommy opened the door once again and with a quick check in either direction, stepped out into the light. Closing things securely behind him, he left his friend alone in the dark with his thoughts once more, his only companion a technological marvel that did not yet exist.

* * *

Racing up the cast-iron helix of the firemen's staircase and bursting through the hatchway onto the forward well deck, they laughed as though their mirth would never stop. The thrill of posing for his drawing… of being chased through the ship by Lovejoy… of seeing the shocked faces of the firemen and trimmers as they raced through the boiler rooms… of giving themselves to each other in the back of that sedan… of only narrowly escaping discovery in such a compromising position… of finally emerging into the fresh and frigid night air once more… It was all so invigorating. Even intoxicating, one might say. It set their spines to tingling and left both of them feeling more alive in this one moment than either thought they had ever been before. Instinctively, they found their way into each other's arms, breathing in the sumptuous mixture of salt air and each other's scent. This was truly living life in the moment, and they each silently prayed that this particular moment would never end.

"When this ship docks, I'm getting off with you." Rose managed to say when she finally caught her breath.

Jack simply looked down at her with a grin that was part euphoria and part amazement.

"This is crazy." He flatly stated, the steam of their collective breath forming a gossamer halo around them.

"I know." She replied. "It doesn't make any sense. That's why I trust it."

It was then that she noticed a faint change in his smile. It was something that would have perhaps gone unnoticed under any other circumstance, but in the dim starlight she could tell that it was there. A certain sense of reluctant apprehension had found its way into his eyes, and its sudden appearance chilled her more than the freezing air ever could. Silently, she began to sense that the man she had so recently and readily given her heart to might not be all that he seemed.

"Jack! What's wrong?" she asked apprehensively, almost dreading what the answer would be.

"It's nothing, really." He hemmed in a most unconvincing manner. "It's just that, well… there's this thing, and… ummm…"

"Jack?" she looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Whatever it is, please tell me. I can handle the truth, but I can't handle you keeping something from me."

The sudden shift in her lover's mood was nothing short of nerve-wracking, and his reluctance to divulge any reason for this was shaking her to her very core. What sorts of dark secrets could he be hiding? Was there another woman? Was he a thief? A wanted criminal on the run from justice? Was she simply a mark to him? A patsy? A mere tool for him to use and then toss aside once she had served his purpose? How could a man who seemed so warm and genuine be so cold and cruel?

And why did he keep casting those apprehensive glances toward the bow?

"I only wish it was that simple, Rose." Jack finally sighed, suddenly unable to maintain eye contact. It was a detail that did not go unnoticed, and it sent her already inflated fears into overdrive. Her gaze dropped as her very soul seemed to assume the worst.

"Who is she?" Rose softly asked, staring blindly down at the deck.

"What?" Jack asked, surprise evident in his voice.

"Just tell me her name!" She shouted, raising her eyes to meet his as she desperately blinked back tears, not wanting to believe the conclusions that her mind was currently forming.

"No! No, no, no… It's nothing like that!" Jack exaggeratedly waved her off. Of all the conclusions the she could have jumped to under the circumstances, that was the last one he would have anticipated.

"Then what _is_ it like, Jack?" she demanded, her voice growing more shrill and frantic by the second. Her structured and stoic upbringing had taught her how to cope with many an unpleasant circumstance, but her own Jack keeping secrets from her was something that she simply couldn't deal with.

"It's just that… well…" His gaze fell, his shoulders slumped, and he released a heavy breath through pursed lips: The sure sign of a man who knew he was beaten.

"It was supposed to be a simple assignment, you know." He sighed in resignation. "Just watch and learn and leave at the appropriate time… Straightforward and easy-peazy. But then lo and behold one night I decide to go up on deck for a smoke, and you come along, and well… suddenly the whole thing gets turned sideways and it all becomes so wonderfully complicated."

"Well that's certainly good to know." Rose panned with an accusatory glare. "Now would the kind sir from the state of confusion mind skipping ahead to the part where he makes _sense?"_

"I'm not supposed to be here, all right?" he blurted out in frustration, relieved to have finally released such a weight from his chest, and yet at the same time terrified about the potential can of worms he had just opened.

When Rose's only response was unflinching silence, he took it as a cue to continue.

"I'm not like you, Rose." He began to explain. "I'm different, and I don't mean in a social sense. I'm from a different place… different than anyone else on this ship. And I know it sounds incredible, and you'll probably think I'm insane for even saying this, but…" His mouth suddenly slammed shut as he realized that he had no idea how to explain the situation. What was he supposed to do? Come right out and announce that he was a man from the future? That he had come back in time to witness one of the greatest human tragedies in history as if it were some elaborate Vaudeville act? He might as well tell her that he was a space alien from the Andromeda Galaxy. Both assertions would be equally well received, he figured.

"Look, the details aren't really important." He quickly redirected, casting another expectant look toward the darkness beyond the forecastle deck. "Just trust me when I say that something is about to happen, and when it does, I need you to promise me something."

"Jack? What's going on?"

"Just _promise_ me, alright? Promise me that when it happens, you won't wait. Not for me… Not for your mother or Cal… Nobody! Promise me that you'll find a boat as quick as you can, get in it, and stay there. That you'll follow the instructions of the crew and you'll stay safe. Please, just promise me that!"

"I promise." She timidly squeaked, suddenly aware of her own heart hammering away within her chest. She didn't know exactly where Jack was coming from with all of this, but it was leaving her as frightened as a little schoolgirl. He seemed to be operating from some vast and hidden knowledge about things that were yet to be, and whatever event was about to hit them loomed absolutely enormous in his assessment.

And that simple fact left her more terrified than she had ever been before.

"Good." Jack confirmed her commitment. "Now I'll be needing to get below pretty quick here, but you remember what you just promised, okay?"

"What's happening, Jack?" she begged through unshed tears. "Please tell me. Just tell me what's going to…"

Her emotional plea was abruptly interrupted by a faint sound that drew her attention skyward. It started as a low rumble, like the roll of distant thunder. But its intensity quickly grew to a crescendo of sky splitting proportions. With a great roar the source of the sound streaked unseen through the darkness overhead, leaving a dull and ground shaking rumble in its wake, detectable both by ear and by the throbbing pulse it left in the pit of one's stomach.

Dropping her awe-struck gaze from the sky, Rose turned her eyes toward Jack, just in time to see his face change... Not to an expression of curious bewilderment as one might expect, but to one of stoic resignation.

"Jack?" she asked again, her anxiety of the moment growing ever greater, if such were even possible. "What does all this mean?"

"You remember how I said that when I met you, things became wonderfully complicated?" He asked matter-of-factly, squaring his shoulders to face the bow and taking a committed step in that direction.

"Yes." Rose tentatively replied.

No sooner had the word traveled across her lips then the sea before them erupted in light. From a point dead off the bow and a mile beyond, a great roiling fireball surged upward from the glassy surface, its sun-like glow reflecting off the mirrored ocean to illuminate the frozen crags and ramparts of the massive iceberg from which it had miraculously sprung.

For all those who witnessed it, the reaction was stunned silence. Never before in all their lives had anyone laid eyes on such a sight. It was as if the sea itself were erupting in front of them, and moments later, when the massive shockwave rolled across the deck, Rose added her own startled yelp to the crack of the explosion and the tattle-tale rattling of the foremast straining against its stays.

Only Jack seemed unfazed by it all. Standing like a statue against the night air, his blowing hair and stern expression gave all the impression of a person for whom such spectacles were an everyday occurrence.

"Well it means that things just became _extremely_ complicated." He replied, his once cheerful voice filled with nothing but the weight of determination and serious intent.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well it looks like there's not a whole lot to discuss here. Most of this stuff is pretty self-explanatory, and the stuff that isn't is that way by design. (Hey! If I didn't keep a little mystery in this relationship you might grow bored and stop loving me!)

But before we go any further with this, it's only fair to point out that I'll be dumping a whole heaping helping of arcane and technical mumbo-jumbo in your laps with the coming chapters. Historical trivia is something of a hobby of mine, and the Titanic is a subject that holds so much fascination for so many people. So as this story progresses, and I repeatedly embrace my inner geek, I'll be using these notes to explain some of the more obscure references.

If you should find yourself in want of more information than that, then you've obviously got WAY too much free time on your hands, but you're also more than welcome to look things up on your own. It's called "Google" folks, and it's your friend!

And speaking of obscure details that nobody gives a flying rip about…

_Famous Footwear:_ The whole thing with the shoes is a very real facet of the wreck site today, and one of the more haunting remnants of the disaster. A thorough survey of the debris field will reveal hundreds of such relics at varying distances from the wreck itself, spanning virtually all classes, genders and ages. They function as a sort of morbid reverse headstone, marking the exact spot where the body of a particular victim came to rest in the hours after the sinking. There is no way to identify the owner, or know anything about them beyond their gender, class and approximate age. The only thing that can be said for certain is that they were there, and that the point in question is their place of eternal rest.

So obviously we have something of a severe twist on the traditional tale here. Jack Dawson is in fact far more than he appears, and now his secret is out. (More or less.) How will he and his companions deal with the situation now that their cover has been effectively blown? And how will the people of Edwardian society react to the knowledge of men from the future walking among them. Let the grand-scale freak out begin!

And for those of you trying to arrange your schedules in advance, my plan is to release a new chapter for this story every three to four days. Mark your calendars!

Remember to leave a review and receive a reply: That's still the best deal you're gonna find on this site folks... or your money back!

'Till next time!

_Nutzkie…_


	2. The Cold Truth

**Usual Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

Alright! We all know the drill, so there's no need to go into a great deal of detail here. After all, disclaimers such as this are the literary equivalent of a speed bump at the end of your driveway. So let's just get through this quick and clean, and then move on to the reason that we're all _really_ here.

_Titanic_ is the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox, and about a half-dozen or so other production studios who managed to snag a piece of that action back in the late nineties. I personally don't own squat, so if you're ticked off and looking to sue, good luck, 'cause you can't get blood from a turnip. I hope you hire an expensive lawyer and run up a _huge_ legal bill, dip wad! (Gawd, being broke can be so liberating!)

Beyond that, anything not found in the movie or on the ocean floor could be construed as mine, I suppose. Although I'm sure there's some legal-eagle out there somewhere who would relish the opportunity to argue otherwise.

In short, the movie belongs to Jimmy Cameron, the profits belong to the studios, the Titanic belongs to the ages, this software belongs to Bill Gates, my kidneys belong to my bookie, and all your base belong to us!

Onward and upward…

* * *

**~ Chapter Two ~**

_**The Cold Truth**_

Staring into the inferno before her, Rose was only peripherally aware of the frantic commotion going on above. One hundred and thirty feet into the jet black sky, the crow's nest bell sounded its resonant tone across the deck and a thickly accented voice screamed warnings into a telephone receiver. Behind that, the bridge was similarly chaotic as shouted orders and affirmative replies were relayed from the wings to the wheelhouse and back again.

A thousand questions swirled through her head as the seconds ticked past. What had just happened? Where had this deliverance come from? How did Jack know? What was the nature of his involvement? Who _was_ he even, this wonderful, caring man who had taught her so much and touched her heart in so many ways, and yet seemed to be harboring so many secrets.

She stood transfixed, as the fiery mountain of ice loomed ever larger in front of them, slowly shifting to the right as the great ship responded to the commands of the helm. As it drew closer, a great slab melted away and plunged into sea with an eruption of foam and steam. Closer still, and she felt the heat of the fire play itself across her face as the berg slid silently past, a scant fifty feet distant from the rail.

With a mighty heave she released the breath that she had been unaware of holding, and turned to Jack. Whatever his involvement in this miracle may have been, it had likely spared them all from eminent disaster, and she could be forever thankful to him for that. Regardless of what dark corners of his soul he may be hiding from her.

But it was questions of those very secrets that came flooding back to her when she saw him reach deeply into his pocket and pull out an item that she did not recognize. It was too small to be a wallet, and too rigid to be a notepad. It seemed to have a vaguely metallic finish around its edge, but was clearly polished glass on its face. There were no other appendages to its featureless surface… Nothing to offer any clues regarding its identity or function. It was just a small box: Too thin to contain much of anything… too thick to be either a hand mirror or beverage coaster.

Seemingly unaware that he was under observation, Jack spared the briefest of glances into its reflective surface before turning his gaze skyward. He pinched his face into a grimace, and began a slow countdown to some unknown event.

"Five… four… three… two… one…"

Right on cue, the face of the mystery item lit up like a Christmas tree in a department store window, accompanied by a shrill tone sufficient to grab the attention of anyone within earshot.

"Yep. Right on schedule." He lightly laughed, although the mirth in his words did not reach to his eyes. He brushed his thumb lightly across the glass, and by the miracle of all miracles, the item in question began to speak of its own accord.

"Hey Jackie! What the hell is going on up there?" a familiar voice that Rose couldn't quite place called out mysteriously from Jack's hand. "There's all kinds of rumors of down here, and they're spreadin' faster than mono through a kissing contest!"

"We just had a blast." Jack flatly replied.

"Well I'm glad to hear you're having yourself a good time."

"Blast as in _explosion,_ you nimrod!"

"So noted. You got a back story to lay on me then?"

"Best I can tell, some yahoo just plunked a Paveway into the berg." Jack said matter-of-factly, as if such gibberish was the most normal thing in the world to him. "Or maybe a Walleye. I can't be sure."

There was thoughtful silence for several seconds after the exchange.

"So when do you think the hilos will show up?" the voice in Jacks hand finally spoke once more.

"Not sure, but they've got to be on their way." Jack said with a shake of his head. "I'm guessing ten minutes, tops. Where do you suppose they'll be putting down?"

"My money's on the fan tail. It's about the only open section of deck they've got that isn't fouled by a mast or stay cable of some sort."

"With all those benches back there?"

"Already scoped it out. It's a tight squeeze, but there's enough room to park a Seahawk."

"If you say so. Meet up on the stern, then?"

"Roger that. I'll grab Fabrizio and head that way. We'll rally under the docking bridge. Don't be taking the scenic route now!"

"I wouldn't dream of it. Jack out." Jack replied, brushing his thumb over the glass once more, this time plunging the small device into darkness. Stuffing it back into his pocket, he glanced to Rose who fixed him with a glare that was part hero-worship, part frustration and all confusion. It was all he could do to simply stand there and smile sheepishly, like a cat that had just been caught in an otherwise empty canary cage, a solitary feather dangling from its mouth.

"Jack! What the hell was…?"

"No time to explain, Rose! We've got to move!" he cut her off abruptly, grabbing her hand and dragging her toward the stairs that would lead them to the third class decks and the pedestrian thoroughfare known as Scotland Road. They had to make it back to the stern, and do so quickly.

There was far more at stake than either of them yet knew.

* * *

It was exactly ten minutes later when a somewhat more frazzled-looking young couple ascended the steps from the aft well deck to the poop deck and spotted their quarry amongst the shadows of the docking bridge.

"Jackie! Glad you could make it!" Tommy greeted as Jack approached the group with a somewhat breathless Rose in tow. "And I see you brought a friend as well." He added somewhat less enthusiastically.

Jack wasn't in the mood for such judgmental notions.

"Doesn't really matter, now does it?" he responded to the accusation. "Not when everyone on board is going to know soon enough."

Tommy simply shrugged and nodded his head in acquiescence. The observation was valid enough.

"So, any sign of them yet?" Jack asked, casting a watchful gaze to the sky.

"No, nothing." Tommy replied with a huff. "Everything's quiet so far, except for Fabrizio's incessant harping."

"Hey! All I'm saying is that it wouldn't kill them to stop dropping these things in our laps so last minute-ish!" Fabrizio grumbled to himself, his eyes also pasted to the darkened sky.

"Well what do you expect from the intelligence department." Tommy chuckled to no one in particular. "You do know that they were only named ironically, after all."

For his part, Fabrizio appeared entirely un-amused. But he was a veritable barrel of laughs compared to the indignation that was coursing through Rose's veins at that moment.

"All right! This little secret society of yours has officially run its course!" She angrily shouted, drawing the immediate attention of all three young men around her. "I've been dragged up and down the length and breadth of this ship being thoroughly ignored for the better part of this evening, and I have officially _had_ it! Now _somebody_ had better explain to me exactly what the _hell_ is going on right now, or else I'm going to have an absolute fit right here on this very spot!"

The outburst had its desired effect, as three sets of eyes were immediately upon her. Jack's glance shifted repeatedly between the seething redhead and Tommy, as if unsure what to do.

It wasn't difficult for Tommy to sense the fearful uncertainty of his friend's position, and he decided after several second to take pity on the unfortunate young man. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, arched his back, and thoughtfully clicked his tongue before offering his latest bit of sage advice.

"You better do what she says, my friend." He offered. "'Cause when a woman gets like that, there's nothin' else you can do."

Jack regarded Tommy with a plaintive stare and sighed, before dropping his shoulders and reaching resignedly into his pocket. It was time to reveal all, and finally face the music.

"Here." He said to Rose, withdrawing a small card from the pocket of his trousers and placing it in her hand. "This should clarify some things, and probably muddy several others." He cryptically explained. "Just be aware that things are going to seem pretty weird after you read it."

The limited illumination of the deck lights made reading anything difficult, and Rose found herself squinting intensely at the fine print on the card. Slowly, the amorphous blur congealed into letters, and the letters soon organized themselves into words. Satisfied that the card was at last legible, she began to read aloud what it said, paying special attention to each and every syllable.

"Lieutenant Jonathan Ulysses Dawson: United States Marine Corps." She read, looking up to regard him with a questioning glance. Left to her own assumptions, she would have never pegged him as the military type.

"Semper fi." Jack grinned and shrugged.

"Hoo-rah." Fabrizio casually offered from the background.

"Service number six five three two seven nine five double-zero." She continued reading after a momentary pause. "Religion: Lutheran. Hometown: Chipewa Falls, Wisconsin. Date of birth: May twentieth, nineteen…"

The remainder of the sentence died in her throat as her eyes grew wide in astonishment. It didn't make any sense to her, the words on the card running in direct opposition to everything she knew about reality and the universe. She blinked repeatedly, thinking that perhaps she was simply misreading, but each and every time she looked back to find the exact same letters and numbers in the exact same order. She looked in askance to Jack, her eyes pleading for some sort of clarification. But Jack only nodded silently, his eyes confirming to her that there was nothing wrong with her comprehension, and that it was most definitely not a misprint.

"Nineteen ninety two." She finished breathlessly, her tone posing it more as a question than a statement of fact.

"Told you it would be weird." Jack apologetically shrugged.

Rose could only gape in silent astonishment, staring deeply into the crystal-blue eyes of a man who she now knew did not exist: A man yet to be born, from a world yet to be created, and a time yet to occur.

From the moment she had fist laid eyes on him, she had known he was special. There was a strange aura that he carried about him; a certain ill-defined quality that she could never quite put a finger on. It was something that defied description, simultaneously mysterious and wonderful, and whenever she tried to define it, it would simply evaporate into the either before rematerializing somewhere else. Pinning it down was like trying to nail smoke to a wall: An impossible task. And yet she could always tell that it was there, whatever it was. Elusive as a phantom and amorphous as the wind, but still there.

And now, with the truth having finally been revealed to her, the mystery of this wonderful man only seemed to deepen. The more she knew, the less she understood, and the farther down the rabbit hole she seemed to fall. Jack had said that meeting her had made things "wonderfully complicated." If only she had known just how complicated things could be.

She wanted answers, but did not know what questions ask. She sought clarity, but clarity of what she could not understand. She craved comprehension, but the matter at hand was so opaque to her that she could not even identify the subject, let alone seek such understanding.

These thoughts and a thousand others spun through her mind as she stared in wide-eyed wonderment at the trio of men before her. These explorers from another world; virtual aliens walking unseen and unnoticed among her own kind, carrying with them a knowledge perhaps greater than anyone else who had ever lived. It was almost too much to accept.

But the debate of acceptance versus rejection was quickly shoved aside as the nighttime sky came alive again, this time not with the roar of thunder, but with a deep and resonant thrum. It fell to earth in a series of dull and guttural vibrations, passing through her sinuses and into her stomach with a rapid pulsation that put her mind to images of an over-sized eggbeater, or a wagon driving over a giant washboard. It grew ever louder as the unseen source gradually approached, descending ever closer to where they stood until it finally hovered directly over head. Four sets of eyes peered upward from beneath the bridge, and one set was astonished at what it saw.

A wondrous craft, sleek and yet slightly hunchbacked, hung suspended against the star-studded sky. Gray as an ocean mist, it dangled motionless from a set of whirling blades whose frightening speed made them but a faint blur against the darkened backdrop of the heavens. A open doorway along its flank revealed a dimly lit interior and a small gaggle of human forms, silhouetted against the red glow of a safety light.

And then it began to descend once more, dropping slowly and methodically toward the polished teak surface of the deck below. The roar of the blades became ever more deafening as the great bird drew closer, and a wind of hurricane proportions surged downward from its belly, washing across the deck with a force that pushed her backward, whipping the hem of her dress into a billowing, frenzied sail.

Her footing began to give way under the blustering onslaught, and her heart surged into her throat as she felt herself stumble backwards toward the rail. She made ready to cry out for help, but before she could even form the words, Jack's strong hands reached out for her. He snagged her by her shoulders and slipped an arm solidly around her slim waist before wrapping his free hand around one of the bridge's support columns, effectively anchoring them both to the spot. They would be safe for the time being.

The craft continued to descend until a trio of rubber tires gently kissed the teak planks, and like a great bird settling into its nest, the machine began to power down. Its mighty roar subsided as the deadly blades gradually slowed in their ferocity, finally coming to hang motionless across the open deck.

With the threat of decapitation removed, the occupants of the strange craft emerged into the open and surveyed their surroundings. Wearing clothing of mottled, multi-hued green, the helmeted forms stood heavily laden with equipment. Bulky packs sat strapped to their backs while a multitude of other items hung from their belts and harnesses. They wore bulky, protective garb of one form or another across much of their bodies, and in their hands they carried what she could only suppose were weapons of some sort: Small, black, and menacing… and sprouting a variety of strange appendages. But even through all the clutter she was able to identify the standard components of a stalk, barrel and trigger. These were clearly men who meant business.

"Wait here, Rose." Jack whispered to her as Tommy and Fabrizio stepped forward toward the new arrivals. "I'll be back in just a sec."

Left to her own devices, Rose watched intently from the shelter of the bridge as Jack and his two companions approached these men from the sky. As the two groups came together, one man in particular stepped forward from the gaggle of newcomers. Distinguishable from the others by his choice of a cap rather than a helmet, he carried himself with an aura of authority: An observation that was confirmed when Jack and his friends drew themselves to attention and saluted before him.

"Greetings, Marines." His booming voice carried across the deck, making eavesdropping an easy task. "Sorry to drop in like this on your little vacation."

"That's not the only thing you dropped, sir." Jack pointed out, thrusting a thumb over his shoulder toward the bow. "That was quite a fireworks show your flyboys put on back there."

"Yes. Well, we needed a way to get your attention." The man in charge explained.

"There's always _e-mail."_ Tommy pointed out bluntly.

"Be that as it may," the apparent commanding officer continued, "we've got bigger fish to fry here. We recently received intelligence regarding a credible threat against the ship. And it's the sort of thing that doesn't bode well for the time stream in any way, shape or form."

"So what's the skinny then?" Fabrizio asked aloud. "Who and what exactly are we facing, sir?"

"It'll all be explained in the briefing." The anonymous officer concluded. "Upstairs in five minutes… first class lounge."

"Yes sir!" all three of them reflexively responded, snapping to attention and saluting before folding themselves into the larger group and heading forward toward the first-class sections of the ship. Rose stepped aside as the group strode past, only to find herself being swept along as well when Jack reached out from the crowd to take her arm and guide her along with the rest. They walked in silence as they crossed the well deck, but once they had begun to ascend the second-class stairs, she felt compelled to speak.

"So you're not even born yet?" she whispered to Jack, still seeking to confirm her belief in the unbelievable.

"Are you kidding me?" he chuckled in reply. "My _parents_ aren't even born yet."

"But you said your parents were dead."

"No, I said that they weren't alive. Technically, that's true."

"Only technically."

"But still true."

It was moments like this that reminded her just why she had hated him when they first met that night along the stern railing. That smug, self-assuredness… The belief that he could size up any situation in the span of a few seconds… It had grated her to no end at first. It wasn't until she had gotten to know the sensitive artist underneath that she had begun to fall in love with him.

"All right, mister smarty-pants. How about a new question then?" she redirected as the party exited the stairs onto the A-Deck promenade and began making their way forward.

"Shoot." Jack agreed.

"Your two friends here. Tommy and… and…"

"Fabrizio?"

"That's him! Didn't they both have accents the last time I met them? In fact, I seem to recall that Fabrizio could barely speak English at all."

"Aye lassie! Ye be 'membrin' we lads as ones with th' funny talk, now do ye?" Tommy responded with an exaggerated smile, which he quickly dropped. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"And my command of English is suspect in any accent." Fabrizio flippantly offered.

"For our assignment, we needed to blend in below decks, and three Americans traveling together isn't exactly typical down there," Jack explained as they approached the entrance to the aft grand staircase, "so we figured a multi-cultural act would let us mesh a little easier."

"So you're all actually Americans then?" Rose inquired.

"As American as apple pie, purple mountains, and a healthy distrust of authority." Tommy playfully offered.

Jack affixed him with a most un-amused glare.

"What my associate, Yankee Doodle Dippy here is trying to say," he offered apologetically, "is that yes, we're all Americans."

"And what was this assignment precisely?"

As he walked, Jack ran his hand over his face and sighed deeply. He was in this far too deep now. There was no other course than to tell her everything.

"We're a team of scholar soldiers, if you will." He began. "In a nutshell, our job is to live amongst the people in steerage and document their lives, because unfortunately the history books haven't treated them much better than the folks in contemporary high society. They've been pretty much ignored by the narrative, which has left a rather large hole in the historic record."

"And it's our job to fill that hole." Tommy added. "The data we bring back to our time helps flesh out the details that history has missed. It helps complete our understanding of the past."

"And your tickets." Rose continued to prod. "Did you really win them in a poker game? Or was that just another lie."

"No, that was true." Jack insisted. "I really did win them. I had to… to sell our story."

"But isn't poker a game of chance?"

"Not the way _he_ plays it." Tommy offered over his shoulder.

"So you cheated then?" she said with an accusatory glare toward Jack.

"I prefer the term '_creative odds-making'."_ He offered meekly. "But some might consider it cheating, I suppose."

"And the iceberg? You knew about that?"

"Yes."

"We were supposed to hit it, weren't we?"

"That's right."

"Is _that_ why you snickered at dinner last night when the waiter asked you if you wanted ice in your drink?"

"Oh, you caught that, huh?"

"Yes, I did."

"Oops! _Busted!"_ Tommy playfully ribbed.

"Hey! _I'm_ not the smart-ass who snuck into the library and left copies of "Futility" laying out all over the place, _smart-ass!"_ Jack fired back defensively.

"I'm sorry! And who's the one who asked Wallace Hartley if he knew any Charlie Daniels tunes?"

Ignoring the sudden bout of verbal sparing, Rose thought back to previous moments in the conversation. She pondered these words for the longest moment as the group turned to enter the atrium of the aft grand staircase. There was no avoiding the fact that much of what she knew about Jack was pure fiction. And such knowledge begged the question of just how far the fiction went. Exactly how much of him was fake? Exactly how much of _them_ was fake? Such questions chilled her to the very core of her soul.

"So then none of it was real?" she asked softly, feeling her heart slowly sink within her chest. "It was all just an act? Your accents? Your family stories? _Us?"_

It was the dejected, desperate tone with which Rose said that final word that caught Jack's attention, forcing him to stop abruptly just outside the staircase entrance. In a flash he rounded on his heel and grabbed her shoulders, capturing her sad and frightened eyes with his own, trying to convey the true depth of his feelings.

"No! Not all of it! Don't you even _think_ that!" he said with as much determination as he could muster. "Our biographies and birth dates may have been fudged somewhat, but _this,"_ he waved his hand across the short distance between them, _"this_ isn't an act! This is as real as it gets!"

"But… you had your assignment… to…" she whimpered softly in protest, prompting him to pull her into a tight embrace. He held her close, gently stroking her crimson curls as he tried to make sense of it all, not just for her, but for both of them.

"The assignment was to watch and learn. Nothing more." He explained, although he suspected that no explanation he could come up with would be sufficient to the situation. "Meeting you wasn't part of that script. And when you get right down to it, becoming involved with you probably broke at least a half-dozen mission parameters by itself."

"Eight of them, to be precise." Tommy offered from the side.

"Okay, eight." He corrected, tossing a momentary glare in Tommy's direction. "But my point is that pursuing you in the way that I did went _against_ the plan. I had orders _not_ to get involved like this, and yet I just couldn't help myself. _That's_ how strongly I feel about you! I'm willing to risk my career and _everything_ else just to be with you and make sure you're safe! Don't you ever forget that!"

Rose whimpered softly into his shoulder, nodding that she understood. She could believe Jack in this regard, even if everything else about him had been a lie.

"Now c'mon. Let's get ourselves out of this cold." He said, taking her by the shoulders and gently guiding both of them inside.

By now, crowds were beginning to gather throughout the ship. The hallways and stairways of first class began to fill with confused and sleepy-eyed people who had been roused from their beds by the recent commotion. Heads turned and conversations stopped as a group of men the likes of which none had ever seen strode briskly and brashly across the polished marble floor, making a B-line toward the lounge and roughly shoving an objecting steward from their path in the process.

"All right! First thing, I want those tables over there dragged to the center. Put them in a big 'U' shape with the base at that end." The as still yet unnamed officer in charge ordered as they burst into the elegant, mirror-paneled room. "Grab some chairs and set them to the outside, here and here. And somebody scrounge me up a spare bed sheet. We'll hang it from the wall over there and use it as the big screen."

Uniformed men scrambled about the room like bees following the directions of their queen. Depositing their weapons in the far corner of the room and setting about their assigned tasks, the opulent space was soon filled with the sound of heavy furniture being dragged across the polished floor. Tables and chairs were briskly moved into position, and some of those present began setting out a strange array of items that they then connected with one another through a series of thin wires.

"Corporal Leyland! Find some outlets and start plugging in those laptops!" The order was given. "And where the hell is my LCD projector? C'mon boys! Clock's a-tickin'!"

Passengers and crew alike were by now starting to filter into the finely appointed room, drawn to the chaos and commotion like moths to a flame. With bewildered curiosity they watched as these men of mystery worked feverishly in preparation; but preparation for what, they did not know. Captain Smith and the bulk of his officers were there, as were Andrews and Ismay. Molly and the Countess of Rothes were gossiping in the corner, pointing and gesticulating at various things as they wildly speculated about the meaning of it all. Cal soon appeared toward the back of the room, having so hastily abandoned the comforts of the first-class smoking room that he still clutched a half-empty snifter of brandy in one hand and the extinguished stump of a cigar in the other.

Ignoring the chaotic environs that surrounded her, Rose slipped unnoticed toward the corner where the small cache of armaments had been so hastily deposited. At this close of a range she could clearly identify them as firearms, the brass and copper-hued glint of ammunition being plainly visible. She took careful note of the various features, and began to draw some startling conclusions.

As a proper woman of society, guns and weaponry had been just about the farthest thing from her cloistered upbringing. But there was something that most members of that society did not know about her: She was the daughter of an avid big-game hunter.

Growing up in her family's palatial country estate outside London, she had spent many an afternoon in her father's study, sitting quietly while he worked at his desk, admiring the dozens of hunting trophies that adorned the walls. Often times he would pause from his efforts to point out a particular specimen and relate the story of intrigue and adventure that lay behind it. Other times, he would go to the closet and retrieve one of his prized hunting rifles. He would sit with her by the great stone fireplace, explaining the weapon's various features and the principals that governed its function. As a result, she slowly came to possess a basic understanding of a firearm. She knew how a rifle was supposed to look and feel, what it was designed to do and how it did it, and what she saw before her now took the balance of that knowledge in an entirely new direction.

Unlike the bulky rifles that she had always known, with their long barrels and hand-polished wooden stalks, these weapons were small and compact, featuring components molded from some sort of synthetic material that gave no evidence of any sheen at all. Extended magazines containing dozens and dozens of rounds indicated a rate of fire far greater than any contemporary weapon, and a variety of sights, scopes and other auxiliary items presented an image of something customized for maximum effectiveness. The overall feel was one of lethal efficiency… A pairing down of military force to the most essential elements and adapting those same elements to the greatest possible effect. The art of war would one day become a far faster, smarter, more deadly affair, she soon concluded: Perhaps the ultimate effect of industrialization and its cold calculus upon the human condition.

"Alright! Gather 'round everyone!" the now familiar voice of authority called out. "While we're tidying up our diggings, let's get this dog-and-pony show started. Sergeant Heywood… the dossiers, if you would please."

"Evans… DiVienci… Dawson." A young enlisted man called out, handing a manila folder to each name as called.

"As you can see from the intro page gentlemen," the officer began to inform loudly enough for the entire room to hear, "we've received definitive intel that a militant neo-fascist group intends to attack and sink this vessel some time tomorrow morning."

A collective gasp of astonishment arose from the entire room.

"They're plan, as we understand it, is to give credit for the attack to certain Serbian-nationalist organizations centered in the Balkans, thus bolstering the credibility of said groups."

"So the Black Hand is getting a handout." Tommy remarked, casually flipping a page in his folder. "Bonus points for irony."

"I'm sure Gavrilo Princip appreciates the effort." Fabrizio added.

"It's not entirely magnanimous." The officer replied. "Their ultimate goal is to create a political climate in Europe that prevents the First World War from occurring, thereby creating a stable environment in which Nazism can grow and flourish unopposed."

Watching the proceedings from a few feet away, Rose could only stand rooted to the floor in stunned silence. Her already overwhelmed mind was absolutely racing at this point, trying to decide which idea she found more disturbing: The prospect of a conflict so massive in scale that it would earn the title of "World War," or that such a horrific conflagration could actually transpire more than once.

"Ahem! If I may beg y'all's pardon for just a moment," a loud and booming voice suddenly called out from the back of the quickly swelling crowd, drawing the room's attention to the portly and straightforward brunet standing in the corner, "but I'd like to pose a practical question if that's all right with you."

Rose couldn't help but smile inwardly. In a room filled with self-proclaimed giants among men, of course it would be to Molly to take the proverbial bull by the horns.

"Yes ma'am?" the officer allowed.

"Just who in the name of Eddie Harriman's ass are you fellas?"

All eyes quickly turned to the uniformed man at the center of the commotion.

"Lieutenant Colonel Spencer Braxton, United States Marine Corps, ma'am." he crisply and efficiently responded.

Molly simply smirked, clearly unimpressed with this answer.

"Well that's just good for you, Colonel." She panned. "Now would you mind answering my _real_ question?"

"Saviors, Maggie." Rose reflexively blurted out under her breath. Her voice was soft… little more than a whisper… and yet it still managed to draw the attention all present. "Saviors from the future."

If it was even possible for the collective sense of astonishment within the room to increase, this was the moment in which it occurred. Stifled gasps and murmured remarks raced through the crowd, fanning the flames of speculation and rumor. The situation was in danger of spinning completely out of control when the clearing of an authoritative throat drew everyone's full attention back to the source of the ruckus.

"Very good, ma'am." The man now known as Colonel Braxton nodded toward Rose. "Your powers of deduction are quite impressive."

"Do those come with tights and a cape?" Tommy whispered to Jack.

Braxton then turned to address the balance of the room.

"Since everything seems to be out in the open now, there's really no sense in keeping things under wraps." He began. "As you all just heard, we are what you might call 'time travelers': Specifically, from the early twenty-first century. We're a highly trained, specially equipped unit tasked with intervening at key points within the time stream. Officially, we're known as the 'Temporal Operations Command'."

"TOC?" Molly half-laughed in amused astonishment. "The acronym for you fellas is _TOC?"_

"Yeah, yeah… _Tick-TOC time soldiers."_ Braxton groaned with a roll of his eyes. "Go ahead and get it out of your system. Everyone always does."

"Well when ya'll make it so darn easy…"

"Moving on!" Braxton growled, clearly eager to proceed with the matters at hand. "As stated, we have received reports of an eminent attack against this ship and all those aboard her. There's a group of ideological zealots out there with the intention of sinking this vessel, and our intention is to stop them."

"Well in that case I am quite sorry to inform you that your services are not required." A mustached man with an Italian suit and an arrogant expression spoke up from another corner of the room. "For while we certainly appreciate your concern, I believe you will find said goal to be a quite impossible task."

Braxton regarded the smirking form of John Ismay with an annoyed sneer.

"Really? That's what you're going with, is it? The 'unsinkable' defense?" he drolled with crossed arms.

Ismay's smug grin suddenly vanished from beneath his mustache. There was something in Braxton's tone that made his very blood run cold.

"Perhaps you'd like to tell me then, sir," Braxton bored into him, "by how many feet did your _unsinkable_ ship miss that berg tonight? A hundred? Fifty? Was it even that much?"

When a silent glare was Ismay's only response, Braxton pressed onward.

"And exactly how long would it have taken your ever-vigilant lookouts to _see_ said berg if we hadn't painted it up the way we did? Huh? How many precious seconds would have ticked by before any sort of response could have been mounted? Things happen quickly at twenty-one knots, sir. At that speed, each and every second is another thirty-six linear feet."

"Well… Be that as it may," Ismay finally managed to find his voice, "I hardly find that to be cause for…"

"Oh, right… right. The _'unsinkable'_ thing." Braxton threw his head back and scoffed as he turned toward the small group of White Star officers who stood gathered in the near corner. "Mister Murdoch, if I may have a word with you please, sir."

The first officer stepped forward and faced the camouflage-clad man before him with eyes of steel.

"The order you gave to Mister Hitchens a short wile ago. _'Wheel hard a-starboard, engines full astern'_ was it?" Braxton began his interrogation, noting that the steel in Murdoch's gaze buckled a bit under his words. He allowed himself the luxury of a small smile, confident that he had hit his mark.

"And then you tried to port around it?"

Murdoch's eyes again faltered.

"I thought so." Braxton grinned. "Now tell me sir, precisely _what_ is the overall effect of such a maneuver? Exactly how much of your flank did you expose? A hundred feet? Two hundred? Stop me when I'm getting close."

By this point, the young officer was nearly shaking in his finely polished shoes. So far all of Braxton's assertions had been spot-on, and he knew the larger implications of what had been said.

"Mister Andrews! If you would please?"

Now it was the master shipbuilder's turn to stand beneath the withering heat of the Colonel's grilling.

"Sir, what would happen if ice were to strike this ship under the conditions which we've heard described so far?" Braxton was laying into the Irish architect like a courtroom attorney on cross-examination. "Say, if the zone of damage extended from the peak tank, back through the first three cargo holds and into Boiler Room Six?"

"Well… I… I would need to consult… my drawings…" Andrews awkwardly and fearfully stammered.

"Oh c'mon Tommy!" Braxton laughed enthusiastically, slapping the engineer heartily across the back. "You designed this girl! She's your baby, for cryin' out loud! You know every rivet and bulkhead she has! Surely you can do this sort of math in your head!"

"Well, given the… given the conditions described. And taking into account the… uh… height of the bulkheads. And the overall… umm…" He stuttered mightily as he figured, trying desperately to avoid the conclusion that deep down, he knew he would inevitably be forced to make.

"…Titanic… would _founder."_ He finally said with a dejected and defeated sigh. There was simply no getting around it. He knew enough about his creation to recognize the elements of a fatal blow, and Braxton had just described them to a tee.

A collective gasp rose from the assembled crowd once more, as the true gravity of the night's events finally came into focus. Stunned silence reigned amongst the rafters of the elegantly vaulted ceiling, except for in one particular corner, where acceptance of this now alternate reality was not so forthcoming.

"For the love of the Lord, would you please grab hold of yourself, Thomas?" Ismay derided his architect. "This ship _can't_ sink! Everyone knows that!"

"She's made of iron, sir!" Andrews shot back, wheeling around to face his employer's chief client. "I assure you that she _can_ sink, and under the aforementioned circumstances, she _would!_ Flooding of the first five compartments would pull the bow down far enough to allow passage of the water over the bulkheads into the next compartment, and then the next, and the next after that. There would be nothing anyone could do to stop it."

"But the pumps!" Ismay objected, gripping his temples in frustration. He seemed not to notice the visage of Captain Smith standing next to him, his bearded face bearing the expression of a man who had just been gut-punched.

"The pumps can only buy you time!" Andrews shouted, cutting off the White Star's chairman. "And even then you would only gain a few minutes at most! It would all take an hour to transpire. Perhaps two even. But by the time the sun rose tomorrow, all this," he gestured to the opulent surroundings, "would be on the bottom of the Atlantic!"

"I wouldn't beat myself up too much if I were you." Braxton consoled the distraught designer, stepping in between him and his employer. "There would be plenty of blame to go 'round for this fiasco." He turned to face the bulk of the officer corps.

"For instance," he growled, his face turning stern once more, "our friend Mister Phillips should realize that it's not a good idea to insult the radio men on other ships!" He sought out the face of the young Marconi operator amongst the crowd. "Otherwise, you risk convincing them to shut down their sets and turn in early. Now that's generally not a good idea, sir. I don't care if they _are_ interrupting your precious conversation with Cape Race!

"Furthermore, it's generally not good policy _Captain,"_ he affixed Smith with a glare as icy as the sea that surrounded them, "to light all your boilers and go steaming off flank speed and hell bent for leather into an ice field that you know is there! You tend to run into things that you typically don't want to run into under those circumstances!

"And as for you, _J.B.,"_ he turned his attention to Ismay once more, his rant rolling along at full steam, "here's a little something for future reference: Stop meddling in other people's business and let your crew do their goddamn jobs! You're paying them good money for their expertise, after all. Don't tell them how to sail the ship and they won't tell you how to manipulate markets or organize a freakin' coal strike!

"And Mister Lightoller! Where is Chucky-boy anyway?" Braxton inquired, searching the room for the ship's second officer and locating him near the entrance to the reading room.

"Another detail, for your own future benefit," he continued, "when the order is given to load women and children first, that doesn't translate to women and children _only!_ If you've got space in a boat, _fill it!_ Otherwise you run the risk of winding up with something totally stupid, like say, only seven hundred and five survivors when you've got space for eleven hundred! Jeez! I mean seriously, guys! Are you professional seamen or aren't you?"

His energy and anger finally spent, Braxton ended his rant and allowed the stunned silence to take hold once more. He hated doing it, but after a lifetime spent reading about the brash arrogance and malignant recklessness that had so defined this night to remember, he couldn't help but unload some small measure of his anger onto those who history had long held responsible.

"So how many?" the voice of Benjamin Guggenheim broke through the deafening silence after several seconds.

"Sir?" Braxton inquired.

"How many would have been lost?" The industrialist clarified.

Braxton looked toward the three members of his unit who had been present for this epic voyage since its origin, and nodded his permission: A small but meaningful gesture that prodded Tommy to finally step forward into the fray.

"Fifteen hundred and twenty-three." He mechanically said, his voice bearing the cold detachment of a person for whom such horrific numbers were simply footnotes in a dusty reference volume.

Astonished gasps and murmured disbelief rolled through the room like a wave.

"And what of us?" Guggenheim pressed further. "Who among us was to be lost as well?"

Tommy looked to his commanding officer, and received another curt nod as permission to continue.

"You," he admitted to the well-rounded aristocrat, "and Mister Thayer… Mister Andrews… Mister Murdoch… Captain Smith…" he paused after calling each name, seeking out the face of that person in the crowd and making eye contact, driving home the full weight of what they had been spared.

"Mister Phillips…" he continued on, "Mister Lee, up in the crow's nest… Mister and Missus Strauss… and Mister Astor." This final admission drew a strangled cry from Madeline Astor, who reached for her husband with one hand and her midsection with the other, grasping at the slight mound of the child within her.

"And who else?" Guggenheim begged as silent weeping could now be heard throughout every corner of the room.

Tommy ran through the Rolodex in his mind, flipping through the list of names that he knew so well. There was one name that he had yet to call, but somehow he didn't feel as though he had the right to pronounce the untimely death of this particular individual. Instead, he turned to his friend and fellow officer with a thoroughly unreadable expression.

"You want to take this one, Jackie?" he asked.

Jack sighed and nodded, turning away from the assembled throng and facing the wall as he collected his thoughts. This would be difficult… perhaps one of the most difficult things he'd ever have to say… but Tommy was right: He _should_ be the one to say it.

"Before I begin, perhaps I should preface what I'm about to say." He began to explain after several thoughtful moments, not sure of where to begin his story, but diving into it still. "In our time, the wreck of the Titanic has become legendary. As such, her remains have become a magnet for deep-sea explorers and professional treasure hunters. Up here on the surface, there's practically a line of explorers and their submarines, all waiting for their turn to go down and explore, and in many cases, salvage items from the wreck.

"One of the more fascinating things that they tend to find are shoes." He continued. "It sounds strange, I know, but it turns out that the tanning process leaves behind a residue that acts as a sort of natural preservative, so after a body decays away to nothing, the shoes and other leather items remain in place, always in a position that indicates they clearly didn't just fall there in their own."

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the iPhone that he had been keeping concealed since they boarded in Southampton. Activating the screen, he began flicking through photos, searching for the one image that haunted him more than any other.

"A recent expedition came across this particular scene, about a hundred and twenty yards due south from the remains of the stern." He said, turning to face Rose, who was by now watching him with rapt attention. "It's a pair of women's shoes, size five by best guess, and obviously first class. But what really grabbed their attention was the small metallic flash here, right about where the wearer's left hand would have been." He showed the ghostly image to Rose, pointing to the faint sparkle in question, clearly visible against the murky dullness of the seabed.

"Do you see it?" he asked.

"Yes. I see it." Rose whispered in confirmation, not knowing where Jack was going with all of this.

"They thought it might be jewelry of some sort, and so being a salvage operation, they moved in to collect it." Jack explained. "This is what they found." He flicked over to another image, this one far clearer and brighter, and held it out for Rose to inspect.

"But… that's my… I mean Cal's…" she gasped in astonishment, her eyes shifting quickly and repeatedly between the sparkler on her finger and the perfectly identical image on the screen. Suddenly an overwhelming sense of dread washed over her, waves of nausea welling up from within.

"_Go back."_ She softly whispered.

Doing as instructed, Jack returned the small device to the previous image and watched as Rose studied it intensely, her focus now not on the glint of silver that laid half-buried in the mud, but on the shoes beneath it: Shoes that suddenly seemed hauntingly familiar to her.

"_Oh my God."_ She croaked out, her voice barely more than a strangled whisper. She blinked back mightily against the blurriness that was invading her vision, but to no avail.

"Oh my God." she repeated, a little more forcefully this time, as she felt her knees begin to weaken. The entire room was spinning now, her surroundings slowly pulling back and fading away into an ill-defined fog of nothingness. A tsunami of recognition was crashing over her, crushing her senses and gripping her very soul with a frigid grasp as cold and unforgiving as the sea itself.

"Oh my _God!"_ she wailed in agony, collapsing forward into Jacks strong embrace. The device in his hand clattered to the floor as he caught her falling form and held her close, trying valiantly to console her as she convulsed and sobbed uncontrollably into his shoulder, screaming out the terrible truth that now stared her unflinchingly in the face.

"_I'm dead!"_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well now, wasn't that fun? The plot thickens a bit with the application of heat, and the characters learn what a massive bullet they just dodged. Although you've got to wonder just how relieved they're actually feeling right now, knowing that there's another bullet still out there with its crosshairs directly on them.

And then of course, there's Rose: Pretty harsh, learning that you're essentially a walking ghost. None of us is ever keen on confronting our own mortality, but to have it shoved in your face in such a way, with the added insult of knowing that your ultimate role in the universe is that of "crab chow"… Well, that's the sort of thing that one doesn't simply shrug off and walk away from. We'll see how she handles it going forward.

Now I'll admit that there was fair amount of technical mumbo-jumbo in this chapter. And although it was really just a small taste of what's coming later, it still bears spending a little time spent explaining things. So for the sake of full disclosure, here goes…

"Paveway" and "Walleye" are members of a family of weapons collectively referred to in the popular vernacular as "smart bombs." The Paveway series features a laser-guidance system consisting of a seeker head in the bomb itself, and a separate designating laser, which an operator will use to "paint the target," marking the precise point where the impact will be made.

"Walleye" weapons, on the other hand, feature an electro-optical guidance system. In a nutshell, this means that there's a digital video camera within the nose of the bomb, sending a continuous stream of data back to a weapons officer equipped with a video monitor and a joystick. The officer uses this data link to control the trajectory of the weapon, effectively flying the bomb into the target with a high degree of precision. It's something akin a video game, except in this case the resulting devastation is far from fictional.

_Futility:_ A novel published in 1898 by author Morgan Robertson, it's perhaps more well known by its subtitle: _The Wreck of the Titan._

In a nutshell, it traces out a story of disgrace and eventual redemption for a young naval officer aboard a newly launched ocean liner that strikes an iceberg and sinks on its maiden voyage. Details of the narrative are uncanny, as many would later point out, correctly predicting the general appearance of the Titanic, the location of the ice strike and the nature of the damage caused: A remarkable feat, considering that the book was published eleven years before the keel of _Titanic_ was even laid. Such similarities have led some to even suggest that the book is actually a work of prophecy rather than fiction, but of course this represents pure speculation on the part of a few imaginative history buffs.

_Wallace Hartley:_ The first violinist and bandleader on board the R.M.S. Titanic. A talented musician from a very early age, Hartley worked as a string musician for Cunard Lines, serving aboard such ships as the Mauretania and Lusitania. Later, he would accept a job offer with the talent agency of C. W. & F. N. Black, which in turn would land him an assignment with the White Star Lines.

During the sinking, the band attempted to calm the crowds with a selection of lively ragtime tunes. Starting in the First-Class Lounge, the eight-person ensemble soon moved to the Grand Staircase, followed by the port side of Boat Deck, just outside the Grand Staircase entrance. Late in the sinking, when the forward portions of Boat Deck became awash, the band played their final tune, which many later identified as the hymn "Nearer My God to The." There is some debate regarding this point however, as other survivors identified the tune as "Autumn." Hartley himself was last seen aft of Funnel # 1, clinging to the rail above the deckhouse just as the area around the Grand Staircase went under.

Hartley's body was eventually recovered by the salvage ship MacKay-Bennett and transferred to the White Star Liner _Arabic _for the return trip to his hometown of Colne, Lancashire. Regarded as a hero of the tragedy, his funeral was attended by 1,000 people, while 40,000 lined the procession route to the cemetery.

Sadly, such would be the only consideration afforded to Hartley the other fallen musicians. For his employee agreement with the Black Agency meant he was not an employee of the White Star, but rather contracted labor. For this reason, White Star had not taken out life insurance policies on any of its musicians, claiming that such matters were the responsibility of the employing agency. Black & Associates, on the other hand, claimed that such responsibilities belonged to the shipping line, and they had consequently also neglected to carry any such insurance. As a result, no policies were in force at the time of the sinking, and the families of the eight band members received nothing.

It's enough to make you suspect that the "Justice System" was only named ironically.

And as for the Charlie Daniels reference, those of you who aren't musically inclined can just Google "The Devil Went Down to Georgia," and prepare yourselves to be utterly amazed. (How that fiddle doesn't spontaneously combust from the friction, I'll never know.)

_Gavrilo Princip & The Black Hand:_ With the annexation of the Serbian provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina by Austria on October 6th of 1908, several Serbian Nationalist organizations were formed as a means of resisting said occupation. These groups operated semi-openly at first, but mounting pressure from Austria soon forced them underground where they reorganized themselves into a loose network of guerrilla warfare organizations. One of the most prominent among these was a group known as _"__Ujedinjenje ili Smrt,_" meaning "Union or Death." However, they soon came to be known colloquially as _"The Black Hand."_

Known for their strong political influence and their willingness to use assassination as a tool of leverage, The Black Hand was a force to be reckoned with in Serbian political circles. And in 1914, they decided to pres their advantage by staging an assassination that they hoped would provoke a regional war, drawing in their Russian allies, and ultimately forcing Austria to withdraw its forces from all Serbian territories.

The plot was carried out in downtown Sarajevo on June 28th of that year by a young Black Hand member named Gavrilo Princip. Unemployed, destitute and suffering from an untreatable case of Tuberculosis, Princip was a classic case of a person with nothing left to lose. Although he initially abandoned his post during the early stages of the mission, a twist of fate put him face to face with his target, Archduke Franz Ferdinand: Heir to the Austrian Throne. Princip took advantage of what he considered a sign of his destiny, and shot both the Archduke and his wife to death in the back of their open-topped sedan.

At first, the effect of the plot was just as the Black Hand leadership had anticipated. Austria sent an occupation force into Serbia, prompting Russia to send a support force and force the Austrian's to withdraw. But things quickly spiraled out of hand from there. Germany entered the conflict in support of Austria, which then prompted France to reject a pending neutrality pact with Germany. Interpreting said rejection as a declaration of war, Germany invaded Belgium as a means of attacking France, and this in turn prompted Great Britain to come to France's aid with their own declaration of war on Germany.

...And the First World War was off and running!

And so at this point, the spring of 1912 is shaping up to be a far different experience than the one in our reality. (Smart phones and choppers and bombs, oh my!) So what will happen next? What form will this new and dangerous threat take? And how are Jack and his chrono-naut companions going to be involved with it? I ain't saying nuttin' here, so you'll just have to wait for Chapter Three to find out.

Take care, one and all!

_Nutzkie…_


	3. A Promise Made

**Usual Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

Alright! We all know the drill, so there's no need to go into a great deal of detail here. After all, disclaimers such as this are the literary equivalent of a speed bump at the end of your driveway. So let's just get through this quick and clean, and then move on to the reason that we're all _really_ here.

_Titanic_ is the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox, and about a half-dozen or so other production studios who managed to snag a piece of that action back in the late nineties. I personally don't own squat, so if you're ticked off and looking to sue, good luck, 'cause you can't get blood from a turnip. I hope you hire an expensive lawyer and run up a _huge_ legal bill, dip wad! (Gawd, being broke can be so liberating!)

Beyond that, anything not found in the movie or on the ocean floor could be construed as mine, I suppose. Although I'm sure there's some legal-eagle out there somewhere who would relish the opportunity to argue otherwise.

In short, the movie belongs to Jimmy Cameron, the profits belong to the studios, the Titanic belongs to the ages, this software belongs to Bill Gates, my kidneys belong to my bookie, and all your base belong to us!

Onward and upward…

* * *

**~ Chapter Three ~**

_**A Promise Made**_

"Oh my God! _Omigodomigodomigod!"_ Rose's anguished sobs rang out through the crowded lounge, drawing an assortment of stares from those present. Some looked upon her disapprovingly… others with sympathy in their gaze. None questioned the motivation behind it all.

"I'm dead! My God, I'm dead!" she continued to wail with a despair and an anguish that can perhaps only be known by someone who has just gazed upon their own grave. With all her strength she clung to Jack like she had never clung to another person before, silently begging him to somehow banish the nightmarish images from her mind.

For the longest moment Jack simply held her close, allowing her grief to play itself out, silently wondering what on earth he could do or say. In this moment he wanted nothing more than to take away her pain: To allow her to un-see the things she had just seen. But alas such was an impossible task, and it left him with the unanswerable question of what his next action should be.

Silently, he resigned himself to the idea that the truth was the best path forward. After all, the truth of the matter could actually be a positive thing, if presented in the right light.

"Shhhh. It's okay, Rose. It's all right." He whispered softly into her ear as he gently rubbed her back, feeling her tense form relax slightly beneath his touch. "You're _not_ dead."

"Yes I am!" she protested with heaving breaths. "That's me! Those are my…"

"It's an alternate time line." He gently explained, taking care to keep his words as simple and heartfelt as possible. "History will take a different course of events now, because we've come back and intervened. None of… _that…_ is going to happen. Reality will be different."

"Are you sure?" she softly wept into his shoulder, her heaving sobs having now greatly subsided.

"Positive." He reassured her.

"Promise?"

"Yes. I promise you that you're safe now."

"So… you _saved_ me… _again?"_ she sniffed in preponderance.

"Yeah. Sorta looks like I'm making a habit of that, doesn't it?" he chuckled lightly.

Slowly, she lifted her head from his shoulder and brought her emerald gaze up to meet his. There was something in that gaze: Something that he hadn't seen before. There had always been a certain degree of affection and trust in the way she looked at him, but her demure expression now held a level of love and heartfelt devotion that went well beyond anything that had preceded it. He was her Prince Charming in every sense of the ancient fable, riding in on a gallant steed to save the day, and she could never, even given a thousand lifetimes, manage to repay him for that fact.

Taking care to hold his eyes with her own, she slowly rose up onto her toes to capture his lips with hers. It was a tender gesture of devotion… Their first show of affection in a public place. It was the ultimate taboo by the standards of her world, and yet it somehow felt so right to both of them. Their lips were nearly touching… just millimeters apart… when Jack felt Rose being forcibly torn from his grasp, his arms suddenly left empty, her startled cry ringing in his ears.

Stunned by her sudden and forcible removal, Rose involuntarily screamed as she was spun violently around, only to be brought nose to nose with the snarling visage of her fiancé. Nostrils flaring with barely controlled rage, his gray eyes bored into her with the intensity of a jackhammer, a sneer playing itself out across his pencil-thin lips.

"What in holy hell do you think you're doing, throwing yourself at that riff-raff." He growled menacingly beneath his breath, clearly enraged by the actions of his bride-to-be.

Rose's first instinct was to shrink back and cower in terror, which she likely would have done had it not been for Cal's vice-like grip on her wrist. She blinked back tears of fright as she stared into the contorted and reddening face before her, but unlike other times when she had been the target of Cal's wrath, there was another emotion present along with the fear: Anger.

Reaching past the fear and timidity that seventeen years as an Edwardian geisha had cultivated within her, she searched deep within herself to locate the source of that anger. She grabbed and held onto it, embracing the bottled up rage that had been simmering unseen within her for so long. All the pent-up resentment of a life spent as a second-class citizen, being continually marginalized and dismissed as unimportant, or even worse, as the property of others, now came boiling up to the surface. Perhaps this was the fire that Jack had claimed to have seen within her. Perhaps not. But whatever the case, it was this source of strength that she would now call upon, for the current circumstances, and perhaps forever after.

"It's only because of that _riff-raff,_ as you so eloquently put it," she spat, matching Cal glare for glare, "that two-thirds of the people on this ship are even alive right now! I hardly think it appropriate to be insulting him in that way."

"The heroism of others is not my concern!" Cal spat back at her. "My concern is with your irresponsible actions and how they reflect on our union. I will simply not permit you to sully my reputation with your petty shenanigans and ill-advised dalliances. Is that clear?"

"You are absolutely unimaginable, Cal. Do you know that?" Rose gasped in astonishment. "I just found out that if not for a half-dozen separate miracles, I'd be lying dead on the ocean floor right now, and the only thing that you can think about is your precious _reputation?_ How all of this reflects on _you?_ Why you conceited, selfish _bastard!"_

_Thwack!_

In a flash, Cal's free hand flew from his side, eliciting a startled yelp from Rose as it struck her squarely across the cheek. An astonished gasp went up from the crowd, and Jack suddenly felt his very blood begin to boil with rage. With fists clenched he surged forward, ready to lay the self-obsessed steel tycoon out for the count… ready to use all of his training… to put each and every ounce of skill he had in the realm of hand-to-hand combat to the test… only to be suddenly and forcibly restrained by his two comrades in arms.

"Easy there, Jackie!" Tommy said as he and Fabrizio both pulled him back by his shoulders. "Wait for it! Just wait for it!"

Clutching her stinging face in one hand, Rose returned her stunned gaze back to Cal, who seemed satisfied that she had finally gone silent.

"Very well then," he triumphantly smirked, "now that we understand each other, I think it best if you returned to our… _oomph!"_

With the speed of a striking cobra, Rose's open palm lashed out, connecting solidly against a point just beneath Cal's nose. Stunned by the sudden upward blow, he staggered backward and tripped over the edge of the carpet, tumbling to the floor in an undignified heap, spots of blood staining the front of his bleach-white shirt.

Jack could only stare in stupefied amazement. Where the _hell_ had _that_ come from?

"And the winner, by technical knock-out: Rose Dewitt-Bukater!" Fabrizio announced in his best _"Friday Night Fights"_ voice.

"Taught her well, you have, Obi Wan." Tommy remarked, placing his hands together and bowing deeply to Jack.

Before he knew what else was happening, Rose had dashed back into his arms once more, trembling lightly as she savored his sweet and protective embrace.

"Damn, Rose!" he said with astonishment as she nuzzled her way into his chest. "I didn't know you had it in you!"

"He had it coming." She remarked, her words muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

"Well irregardless, I'm proud of you, my little prize fighter." He admitted with a grin, dipping his head to kiss her gently through her crimson curls. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of lavender that seemed to surround her like a heavenly aura.

"Yeah. Just be careful to never piss her off… _ever!"_ a laughing Tommy helpfully offered from the side.

His laughter was quickly interrupted however by a feral growl as Cal picked himself up off the floor, one hand clenched over his profusely bleeding nose.

"Well whadaya know? Looks like the champ is ready for round two." Fabrizio dryly observed. Jack prepared himself for a fight, but was quickly waved off by his friends.

"Don't worry buddy." Tommy said with a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We've got this covered."

"Let's get ready to rumble." Fabrizio said, cracking his knuckles as the pair stepped forward to meet the approaching mass of first-class furry. "You want the left side of the right this time?"

"I'll go with the left." Tommy remarked. "But wait 'til I've got a good grip, okay? Last time I didn't even have a chance to make my wish."

Squaring their shoulders to the advancing threat, the two of them stepped directly into Cal's path. Tommy held out a hand, indicating for the seething steel baron to cease and desist.

"Get out of my way, you bottom-feeding ruffians." Cal growled with barely controlled rage.

"Ruffians? Man, a moment ago I thought we were riff-raff." Tommy smirked toward Fabrizio.

"Looks like we just got promoted." Fabrizio smiled in response before turning his attention back to Cal.

"Let me spell this out for you, moneybags." He began. "You see, we've got something of a Kodak moment going on over here," he offered, thrusting a thumb to indicate the embracing couple behind them, "and you're not exactly the most popular person in this room at the moment, so I guess what I'm saying is that now would be a good time for you to be a good little robber baron and just back the heck off."

"Yeah, dude. Just go count your money… or bust a union… or whatever it is fat cats like you do for fun." Tommy added.

"I thought they shopped for senators?"

"Meh, I'd call that more of a _hobby."_

Apparently incensed by the blatantly dismissive lack of respect, Cal chose that particular moment to change his tactics. Actions spoke louder than words, he had always believed, and so he lunged forward toward Tommy with an enraged grunt. This was followed by a much more subdued grunt as Tommy deftly side stepped the attack and threw the steel magnate over his hip in a classic judo move. In a flash he had Cal sprawled across the floor on his stomach, his right arm pinned painfully behind his back.

"You see, Fabri," he remarked as Hockley writhed and grimaced beneath the force of his knee, which was planted forcefully into Cal's back, "there's a way to get these rich folk's attention."

"I see that now." Fabrizio nodded in agreement. "You just have to cross their palm… _with their shoulder blade."_

"Get off of me, you fourth-class filth!" Cal raged, only to be cut off by shrieks of pain when Tommy increased the tension on his arm.

"Uh, friendly word of advice, Hockley:" he leaned forward and whispered into Cal's ear. "It's usually best not to antagonize someone who knows a dozen ways to kill you with just his thumbs."

"Yeah Cal," Fabrizio added, standing over the pair with arms crossed, "don't be rotten to the Corps."

"If you boys are done roughhousing over there, there _are_ still a few ends to tie up over here!" Braxton barked above the mêlée, causing Fabrizio and Tommy to look up. With resigned shrug, Tommy released Cal's arm and stood, making a show of patting him condescendingly on the head as he did so. Moments later, the trio was back together, dossier folders in hand, listening intently to their commander. Cal, meanwhile, decided to salvage what little dignity he had left and make his exit, pushing his way through the crowd to the back door, holding his bloodied nose all the way.

"Man. I thought he'd _never_ leave." Tommy muttered.

"Apparently he's the anti-social type." Fabrizio returned.

"Now all of our intel leans toward an attack sometime in the mid to late morning." Braxton continued from where he had left off. "The enemy has assembled a, shall we say, _'eclectic'_ collection of aircraft for this purpose, with a main striking force of a dozen or so B-45s."

"Tornados, eh?" Tommy remarked as he flipped to a new page in his dossier. "Well _there's_ a blast from the past."

"It gets better." Braxton continued. "In addition to the bombers, the enemy has fielded a support force of approximately two dozen F-86/Ds."

"_Annnnnnd_ enter the Sabre Dogs." Jack groaned. "Jeez! It's like a flying museum or something."

"Trust me. The Confederate Air Force, it ain't." Braxton reassured his men. "These guys mean business. We wouldn't be here if they didn't."

"Agreed, but do they know that _we're_ here to give _them_ the business?" Fabrizio asked quizzically.

"Our current assumption is 'no' on that front." Braxton answered. "We figure that if they knew we were here, they wouldn't have fielded such a bunch of flying relics."

"Okay. Fair 'nuff." Fabrizio pressed. "But then why the fighters? If they're not expecting any aerial opposition, it all seems pretty unnecessary."

"You want the straight-up and unvarnished version?"

"Astonish me."

"We think they're for strafing lifeboats."

"Oh, _that's_ just precious!" Tommy nearly choked. "I take it these guys haven't gotten the memo about the Geneva Convention yet?"

"Or human decency for that matter." Jack panned.

"Yeah, so these guys aren't in the running for 'Citizen of the Year.' Glad we all agree." Braxton pressed onward. "Bottom line, we've got a major attack coming, possibly in two waves. We've got a serious technological advantage in our corner, not to mention the element of surprise, but we're facing a pretty significant disadvantage in the numbers department."

"How significant, sir?"

"Nearly four to one, up-side-down. All we've got to muster is our boys in VMA two-fourteen, plus another two birds we'll be pulling from VMA five-sixty-three."

At the mention of this nonsensical batch of gobbledygook, Jack and Tommy both looked up from their files to share a meaningful glance.

"Why do I suddenly get the feeling that we've just been drafted?" Jack groaned, gently rubbing his temple with one hand.

"You catch on quick, Lieutenant." Braxton grinned from across the room. "You and Evans will be flying close support protection as part of this operation. Welcome aboard, Firebirds!"

"And so our little trip becomes a working vacation." Tommy remarked.

"Your planes will be delivered overnight. If all goes to plan, you'll be airborne by oh-eight-hundred." Braxton continued. "Currently, the Saipan and The Sullivans are both steaming this way at flank speed for fire support, but they're still several hours away. Hopefully the attack will come later rather than sooner."

"All right then. Another question?" Tommy raised his hand.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Why tomorrow for the attack? I mean it seems kind of silly to be sinking a ship that by all historic accounts had already sunk the night before."

"Ah! Well, by our best guess, in scanning the time line, our illustrious adversaries noticed that in this particular reality Titanic had survived the night, and didn't bother looking any deeper than that. If they'd done a little more research, they would have seen _us_ staring back at them."

"Yes, but that raises a whole different set of questions." Tommy continued to press. "Because if the only reason they're here to attack is essentially because we're here to defend… And we're only mounting a defense because of their attack…"

"Indeed! And welcome to the living paradox that is time travel!" Braxton exclaimed with an exaggerated bow.

"It _is_ a cornucopia of disturbing concepts." Fabrizio offered.

"Is your head hurting right now?" Tommy inquired, leaning over to Jack.

"Throbbing."

"Time travel will do that." Braxton offered apologetically.

"Well then that just leaves one more issue." Tommy pressed again, turning his attention back to the Colonel. "This whole thing about preventing double double-you one as a means of cementing the Nazi's rise to power? Doesn't the absence of the war remove the Treaty of Versailles from history, negating all the debt and inflation that cratered the German economy and robbing the Nazi's of their only real justification for seizing power in the first place?"

"What can I say?" Braxton shrugged. "We're dealing with ideological extremists here. And extremists tend to operate with a logic all their own."

It seemed a fair enough assessment.

"Yeah, but even if these guys are never going to achieve their primary goal, there must be _something_ major that comes of this." Jack offered in preponderance. "I mean, if there wasn't then you wouldn't be here and we'd just be leaving well-enough alone, wouldn't we?"

"Excellent observation, Lieutenant Dawson." Braxton nodded. "I won't bore you with all the details, so instead I'll just say that while a certain Austrian art student with a Charlie Chaplin mustache winds up hocking paintings on a Vienna street corner for fifty cents a pop, the bigger picture actually turns out much worse."

"Worse? What could _possibly_ be worse than Hitler rising to power?"

"I'm trying not to think about it." Tommy mumbled under his breath.

"Well, at least we're making a difference."

"Indeed. Now is there anything else you boys would like to discuss?"

"No sir!" Tommy, Jack and Fabrizio all barked in unison.

"Very well then." Braxton finally concluded. "We'll finish setting up here. We've got two more Seahawks inbound with the ballance of our equipment, so if the boys in supply packed everything on the requisition list, we'll have navigational radar and night vision up and running within the hour. Captain Smith, sir?"

"Yes?" White Star's most distinguished officer perplexedly asked.

"We'll need you to put in a course due south, flank speed. The more we close the range between the fleet and ourselves, the better off we'll be. And don't worry about the ice. We have ways of seeing in the dark."

"Now just wait one minute!" Ismay jumped up, suddenly reinserting himself back into the conversation. "This ship has a precise schedule to keep, and as the Chairman of this company, it is both my duty and my prerogative to…"

"Oh, would you just _shut_ it already?" Smith spat, cutting his boss off in mid sentence. "Your bloody interference has already caused enough problems as it is!"

"Mister Smith, sir," Ismay growled, stunned by the swift and forceful rebuke, "may I remind you that you are speaking to your employer."

"Oh, forgive me then. Would you just shut it already, _sir?"_ Smith corrected himself. "And may I remind _you_ that I happen to be retiring at the end of this voyage. Your sway in this matter is hardly substantial." He then returned his attention to Braxton.

"It will be so." He confirmed to the colonel before him.

"Very good. And thank you." Braxton smiled.

"It's still a bloody inconvenience." Chief Purser McElroy muttered to no one in particular..

"Beats doing twenty laps around the North Atlantic, pal." One of the unnamed enlisted men pointed out.

"_Annnnnnnd…_ we're back." Braxton panned with a roll of his eyes. "That about covers things here. You boys had better get some shut-eye." He said, turning to the three members of his team who had been aboard the longest. "It's bound to be a long day tomorrow. Pre-flight briefing back here at oh-six-thirty. Dismissed."

"'_Take a cruise'_ they said. _'It'll relax you.'_ They said." Tommy bemoaned as the trio turned to head back toward their quarters amongst lower decks of the ship. "Just who the hell are _they,_ anyway" He absent-mindedly grabbed a half finished drink from a nearby table and took a heavy gulp.

"_The Love Boat,_ it ain't." Fabrizio comically lamented. "So what's your take on all of this, Jack?"

"Have either of you guys seen Rose?"

"Why? Did you misplace her or something?" Tommy pondered, glancing about to confirm that there was indeed no sign of the fiery redhead.

"I don't know." Jack admitted. "She was right here a moment ago, and now… _poof."_

"She must've ducked out."

"Yeah, but _why?"_

"Well who knows with women? Personally, I gave up on even trying to understand them a long time ago. Seriously, six years I wasted on the issue and all I got was migraines."

"That, and a lifetime subscription to Cosmo."

"Shaddup!"

Exiting the lounge through the corridor past the reading room, the trio headed for the Grand Staircase, which would provide them the most direct route to the bowels of the ship. Along the way they stood aside as Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress brushed past.

"I must admit Leontine, this whole experience has left me quite put off by White Star, and given me a far greater respect for Cunard." He lamented to his French companion. "I say to you now, from here on, the only vessel we shall embark upon will be the Lusitania."

The distinguished mining magnate then spun promptly on his heel and faced the trio at the sound of Jack nearly choking, Fabrizio stumbling, and Tommy spiting his drink across the hall.

"I say, did I say something amusing?" he asked in supreme annoyance at the three wide-eyed faces.

"Uh, no! Not at all!" Jack covered unconvincingly.

"Yeah, everything's great." Tommy added. "We were just wondering if you're also going to book a cruise on the Andrea Doria is all. _Ooof!"_ Jacks elbow connecting solidly against his ribs cut off any further remarks.

Guggenheim regarded the three of them with a long and suspicious look before turning and continuing back to his cabin on B-Deck. He couldn't be sure what had just transpired, but he also couldn't help but feel that he had just been issued a warning of some sort. If only these future-men weren't so darn cryptic about everything.

"I think the time stream is polluted enough as it is, thank you very much." Jack growled through gritted teeth after Guggenheim had departed. "We don't need to be running around giving away how the story ends."

"I heard the butler did it." Fabrizio offered.

"I heard the answer was forty-two." Tommy added.

"Okay, seriously! Why do I even bother?" Jack lamented, throwing up his hands and starting down the corridor once more. Sometimes he wished he had taken that desk job as an intel analyst back when he had the chance.

The trio quickly resumed their trek to the lower decks. But as they exited the corridor into the domed atrium of the stairs, a slender hand reached out from the shadows near the corner and grabbed Jack by the arm, pulling him in.

"Rose!" he exclaimed in surprise as he was brought nose-to-nose with his assailant. "There you are! I was wondering where you'd…"

"Is it true?" she asked plainly, cutting him off. Her eyes held a deep concern the likes of which he had never seen from her before.

"Is _what_ true?" he inquired, not certain as to the question being asked.

"Is it true that there are men coming to kill everyone on board?" she asked in a strained whisper.

In this moment, he wanted nothing more than to tell a comforting lie and put Rose's mind at ease. But somehow, for the life of him, he just couldn't bring himself to deceive her in such a way.

"Yes." He confirmed, his shoulders drooping with the admission.

"And you'll be going out to fight them?"

"Yes. It's what we do."

"Flying?"

"That's right."

"And there's a… a chance you might… not… come back?"

Aha! So _there_ was the crux of it all.

Looking down into the beautiful green orbs before him, he saw reflected an apprehension and a fear that shook him to his very core. Rose was absolutely petrified by the possibility of losing him: Terrified beyond measure by the prospect that the beautiful life she had so recently glimpsed might be torn from her grasp before she ever even had the chance to truly touch it.

It was in this moment that he began to grasp just how deep of an impression he had made on the redheaded socialite. They had only known each other for three days, and yet Rose had apparently formed a bond with him whose strength he had yet to fully fathom. He looked down at her beautiful form, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and searched his soul for the words that would make this all better. He reached out and pulled her into himself, feeling the rapid beating of her heart as it pounded within her chest, wanting so badly to take her fear away… to tell her with absolute certainty that he would return to her the next day and that they would have their 'happily ever after.'

But alas, he could not. For he knew that such a statement would be a lie. There _was_ a chance that he may not come back from this mission, just as there was every time he strapped himself in and took to the sky. To pretend otherwise would be a deception of the highest order, and as much as he may have wanted to alleviate her fears at that moment, he couldn't bring himself to do that to his precious Rose. She deserved better.

"Yes. A chance." He sighed in resignation, feeling Rose tense beneath the weight of his words. He needed something else. Something to reassure her… to comfort her… Something that she could hold onto.

"Look. I'll have a great team up there with me," he assured her, "and I'm not exactly a slouch myself."

"Oh don't sell yourself short, Jackie. You're a tremendous slouch."

Jack flinched as he looked over toward Tommy and Fabrizio, neither of whom he had seen approach.

"Not helping." He growled in irritation.

"Not trying." Tommy grinned in return.

"So anyway, as I was saying before I was so _rudely_ interrupted," Jack continued, shooting a glare at Tommy, "the chances of something really bad happening up there tomorrow are actually quite slim."

"Yes, but there's still that chance!" Rose protested. "And even if you _do_ come back, what will happen to us then? You're from an entirely different world than me! _Literally!_ How can we ever be together if you're basically an alien in my world, and I'm one in yours?"

Jack's eyebrows knitted and his face pulled into a grimace at her words. Truth be told, he hadn't even considered that issue. Now, it stood as a major obstacle between them.

"Okay, here's what we'll do then." He said after several moments of thoughtful consideration. "When I get back, I'll start calling in some favors. I've got a few friends who are pretty high up in JSOC and they owe me."

"Pretty high up in _what?"_

"Not important right now. What _is_ important is that with the right strings being pulled, I should be able to arrange it so that you can come back with me." His smile beamed as he thought of how clever he was.

"Back to the future?" Rose asked hopefully. But her elation quickly turned to confused irritation when she noticed the incessant giggling of both Fabrizio and Tommy.

And of course Jack's barely-suppressed grin didn't help matters either.

"What? What's so funny?" she asked, withdrawing herself somewhat from Jack's embrace and eyeing him warily.

"Nothing. Nothing at all." He snorted through tears of mirth that slipped from the corners of his pinched eyes. "It's just… You made an unwitting… It's a pop culture… Oh, I'll explain later."

"Well I'm certainly glad you find my ignorance so amusing." Rose huffed, pulling herself away and crossing her arms defiantly.

"It's not like that, Rosebud." Jack chuckled, placing his hands comfortingly on her shoulders. "It's just that six o'clock is going to come pretty early and we're gonna need our sleep to be in fighting form." He leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Goodnight, my beautiful blossom." He whispered, slowly turning to walk away.

"Marty! You're not thinking fourth-dimensionally!" Tommy cackled exaggeratedly, clasping Jack's shoulders before laughing and turning away, prompting Jack to playfully slap the back of his head and give him a shove toward the stairs.

Rose stood by silently as she watched the retreating forms of her lover and his two friends. Never before in her life had she felt so frightened. Never before had she felt so unsure. She knew there was a chance that she would never see him again after this night, and no matter how remote that chance might be, the mere thought of it still chilled her down to her very soul. She had grown so close to him in the past three days. She had come to depend on him so much. Seventy-two hours ago, she couldn't even imagine that such a love existed in this dark and cold-hearted world. But now, she felt the warmth of that love coursing through her veins and filling her heart. Loving Jack in this way seemed as natural as breathing to her. She couldn't live without air… and she couldn't live without Jack.

In the end, regardless of what might have transpired in the past, or what surprises the dawn might bring, there was only one thing she wanted in this moment: One singular thing that her heart truly desired.

"Wait! I'm coming with you!" she called out, hitching up her dress and dashing after the retreating trio.

At the sound of frenzied footsteps approaching, the three of them turned to face their pursuer.

"Beg pardon?" Jack asked in confusion.

"I said I'm coming with you." Rose clarified, just in case he had truly misheard her.

"But… we're heading off to bed."

"I know."

"Yeah, but we sleep down below, and well, your cabin is more in that direction over…"

"I'm spending the night with you!" she declared to all present, her tone brokering no argument.

Neither Jack nor Tommy nor Fabrizio could do anything more than stare agape at the statement. It was something that exactly none of them were expecting. Fabrizio looked on with confusion, Tommy with an expression of prideful congratulation, and Jack just looked like a deer caught in the proverbial headlights.

"Uh… I don't… know about this, Rose." Jack stammered, the first of the group to find his voice. "It seems like it might be a very bad…"

"Please, Jack. Just hear me out." Rose begged him, moving in close and placing her hands on his chest. She cast her emerald gaze downward as she explained.

"I believe you when you say the odds are against it," she tearfully began, struggling to find speech amidst the horrific images that those very words were conjuring, "but just in case you don't come back to me, I want to know what it's like to sleep beside you, even if for only one night. I want to know how it feels to have your arms around me… to listen to your heartbeat… to know that you're with me and I'm with you. I want to carry that memory with me and cherish it forever. Please Jack… If you care for me at all, just grant me this!"

_Oh, now that just wasn't fighting fair!_

Plaintively, Jack looked to his companions for guidance, but only received tilted heads and shrugs in response. Everything about Fabrizio and Tommy's collective body language seemed to say, _"She's got you whipped, dude. Might as well roll with it."_

"Okay. C'mon then." He finally relented, tucking Rose protectively under one arm and thanking his lucky stars that most of the first class passengers were still absorbed with watching the unfolding activities in the lounge. As they descended the nearly deserted four flights of stairs to E-Deck, Rose huddled closer into his protective embrace. If this was to be the last night they would ever spend together, then she fully intended to savor each and every moment to its fullest.

Once the landing at E-Deck had been achieved, the group made a quick turn to the port side and ducked through an unmarked door into the third-class corridor known as "Scotland Road." From there it was a simple matter of moving aft and taking the stairs down two more decks before the mismatched quartet stood before a simple door marked as "G-60" on its plain, wooden finish.

"Well here we are. Home sweet home." Fabrizio meekly offered.

"Be it ever so crumbled." Tommy added with one of his trademark smirks.

"I swear, sometimes it's like I'm bunking with Abbot and Costello." Jack grumbled as he opened the door and stepped through with Rose in tow."

"You know, you're _really_ going to have to start explaining some of these things to me eventually." Rose protested as she followed dutifully behind.

It was somewhat surprising to find the room empty, but then they supposed it made sense in a way: What, with all the commotion of strange flying machines landing on deck and what not. The SH-60 Seahawk was the closest thing to an alien spacecraft that most of these people would ever see: It was only natural that they be drawn to the sight of it in such a way.

Sitting on the bottom bunk and averting her eyes while the three men in her presence prepared themselves for bed, Rose took the opportunity to remove her shoes and allow her stocking feet to settle on the plain wooden floor. She wiggled her toes to help the circulation, savoring the cool smoothness of the surface: Something so different from the plush wall-to-wall carpeting of the first class cabins. It was a far different world down here against the posh surroundings that she was accustomed to. Everything was so plain and utilitarian by comparison, and yet she found that fact strangely refreshing. Things seemed more real when removed from all the opulent adornments and bejeweling that dominated first class life. Here, you knew what you had, and whom you were talking to. There was no social pressure to put on airs or pretend that something was what it wasn't. Seeing was believing in this realm. You could trust your eyes and ears, and that simple fact alone presented a vision of freedom that set her very heart to flying.

It was almost enough to let her forget the storm clouds building just beyond the horizon.

_Almost._

"All clear. You can look now." Jack acknowledged, causing her to look up from her inward contemplation. The sight of him standing there in a sleeveless undershirt and flannel pants made her heart skip a beat. She could see every one of the toned muscles across his chest and arms. He was truly a prime physical specimen, and although she undoubtedly would have fallen for him regardless of his outward appearance, the fact that he _was_ so easy on the eyes made their bond all the stronger.

Wordlessly, she swung her legs up onto the bunk and slid over against the bulkhead, taking care to leave enough room for her lover to join her.

All right Marines! Lights out!" Fabrizio announced, slapping off the light and climbing into his own bunk. Tommy was quick to do the same, mounting the short ladder into the berth directly above Jack's.

Jack was the last one in, gently sliding in beside Rose and pulling the light wool blanket over them both. She quickly found her way under his arm and nestled into him, wrapping both arms around his chest. He responded by bringing his other arm over her, placing one around her shoulders and the other around her waist, cradling her against himself as if she were something precious. She sighed and inhaled deeply, allowing his scent to linger in her nose.

She took careful note of everything about him. The way he felt… the way he smelled… the sound of his breathing… the rhythm of his heartbeat. Each and every detail was methodically burned into her memory. Everything from the tone of the muscles around his ribs to the way his warm breath tickled the top of her head. If this were to be the only night they would ever spend together, then she would make it enough to last a lifetime.

After all, hadn't Jack said exactly that when he spoke so eloquently at dinner about the need to live each day to its fullest. Of course knowing of him what she knew now cast his words in an entirely different light, but if anything that light only increased the weight of their meaning. Life truly was precious, as the narrowly avoided events of this night more than proved, and the need to savor each and every moment was an ever-pressing concern.

But then again, uncertainty can also be a good thing, as the surprises it brings can be pleasant just as easily as they can be disappointing. And Jack had already assured her that the odds were squarely in his favor…

Which left another set of questions to be answered.

"Jack?" she whispered softly, raising her eyes to look at him through the darkness.

"Hmmmm?" he muttered.

"What's the future like?"

Gazing down into her shimmering green orbs, he smiled to himself, seeing the curiosity and wonder that resided there. In the back of his mind, he knew that he should have seen this question coming.

"It's certainly different from what you know now, but in terms of the biggest thing that _you'd_ be dealing with? Well let's see now…" he pondered openly. "Let me ask you this: Where do you fall politically?"

"Beg pardon?" Rose perplexedly asked. She honestly didn't know how to answer that.

"Your political viewpoint." Jack clarified. "Do you fall more toward the progressive side of the spectrum, or do you consider yourself more conservative?"

Rose closed her eyes and pursed her lips in thought. She had no idea how to even approach such a question. The subject of politics, she had always been taught, was a man's domain. They were the ones, after all, whose hands rested on the levers of power in society. As a woman, her role in political discussions was to sit silently by and nod in agreement with whatever was said. Her personal opinions on the topic were wholly irrelevant.

"I… I don't know." She sheepishly admitted after several seconds of contemplation. "I've never given it any thought."

"Well you'd better _start_ thinking about it," Jack lightly chuckled, "because we've got an election coming up in a few months, and you'll be voting."

"_Voting?"_ Rose's head shot up from Jacks shoulder at the very mention of the word. "Did you just say I'll be _voting?"_

"Uh huh." Jack confirmed with a grin, finding no small amusement in her surprise.

Several seconds passed as Rose absorbed the meaning of Jack's statement.

"They did it, didn't they?" she finally asked after several moments. "The suffragettes actually got the vote! Well I'll be damned!"

"They got a hell of a lot more than that." Jack added with a smile. "So far we've had women in Congress, women Senators, the governors of more than a dozen states have been women at one point or another, I can name three women offhand who've served as Secretary of State, and we almost had a woman as President last time 'round."

"A woman _President?"_ Rose begged in total astonishment. It all seemed too amazing to be true, even given more than a century of potential progress.

"Yeah, _almost."_ Tommy remarked from the top bunk. "But we wound up electing the black guy instead."

Jack threw a quick left jab into the mattress above him, eliciting a startled grunt from his upstairs neighbor.

Muttering an oath under his breath, Jack turned his attention back to Rose, noting that the look of wonderment in her eyes had grown geometrically.

"Told ya' the future was gonna be different." He grinned mischievously.

"Well good morning, sunshine! That _is_ different!" she gaped in awe before returning her head to his shoulder and sighing contentedly.

"So what else will be different?"

"Well I won't lie to you by saying the future's a utopian candy land filled with lollypops and rainbows." He sighed. "Even with all the progress, we've still got our share of problems. But we like to think that the overall track of the twentieth century was in a positive direction. And we did accomplish some pretty incredible stuff. Some good and some bad, but all of it incredible."

"Like what?"

Jack closed his eyes and breathed deep, pressing his head back into the pillow as he made a mental list.

"Two world wars, a cold war against global communism, an economic collapse so complete that it goes down in history as 'The Great Depression,' the recovery from said depression, and the formation of a social contract, dictating that the wealthiest members of society bear at least some responsibility for the condition of the less fortunate." He rattled off one by one.

"We fight over and eventually accept equal rights for women, for minorities, and for those of different religious backgrounds. We struggle toward the goal of a more perfect union, and manage to claw our way at least a little closer to it. We conquer the oceans and the mountains, flying around the world in a matter of hours instead of sailing around it in a matter of weeks. We split the atom, walk on the moon, and turn our eyes to the heavens as the last great, unexplored frontier. We automate our lives with technology, developing thinking machines with artificial intelligence, and we place the collective balance of human knowledge into a great global library, accessible instantaneously from anywhere by any person at any time. We communicate on a global scale, yet we sometimes seem to understand each other less than ever. We develop the beginnings of a world community, comprehending how similar we all ultimately are, and yet we still cling stubbornly to our differences. It's progress to be sure, but progress that comes at a price."

"Well no wonder my taxes are so damn high then!" Tommy called out from the darkness above. This time it was Rose's turn to plant a fist firmly into their neighbor's backside.

"Is he always like this?" Rose begged in annoyance.

"Yeah, but you can just ignore him." Jack shrugged. "We all do."

"Can do." She assured him as she returned her head yet again to his shoulder. "The future sounds nice, by the way."

"It is." Jack admitted with a sleepy grin. "Even with all its problems and the work still left to be done, it's a pretty awesome place."

"I can hardly wait to see it." Rose yawned in reply, feeling her own eyelids becoming increasingly heavy. She slowly melted herself into Jack, allowing the rhythmic beating of his heart to fill her ears and marveling as she felt her own heart synchronize itself in time. She closed her eyes and heaved a deep, contented sigh, finally allowing sleep to overtake her. Within moments she was dead to the world, a contented smile creasing her face while dreams of a joyous and freedom-filled future danced merrily through her head.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Here's hoping that you all enjoyed this latest installment. I figured that after two cliffhangers to start with, ending this chapter with a little bit of fluff would be a refreshing change of pace. Also, I hope all the pop culture references didn't throw too many of you off the scent, so to speak. But hey, at least you have the _opportunity_ to know what the hell is up with it all! The poor folks back in 1912 would have been beyond clueless.

Now regarding the layout of the ship, I imagine that some of you might be a little confused at this moment. A thought somewhere along the lines of _"Whadaya mean AFT grand staircase? Were there TWO of them or something?"_ is probably dominating your frontal cortex right about now.

Well to answer your incredibly astute inquiry in the most direct manner possible, _yes._

One of the lesser known facts about the Titanic's design is that there were actually _two_ grand staircases: One forward, located just ahead of Funnel # 2 and one further back between funnels Three and Four. Now in all fairness, the aft staircase lacked the opulent grandeur of its forward counterpart. Extending only from C-Deck up to A-Deck, it did not boast elements such as ornate candelabras and crowning domed skylights. But it did, on the other hand, provide access between the first-class cabins and several key public areas, such as Palm Court Veranda, Café Parisian and the First-Class Smoking Lounge.

In terms of all the technical mumbo-jumbo, here's a handy translation key:

_SH-60 Seahawk:_ A naval variant of the UH-60 Blackhawk, this product of the Sikorsky Aircraft Corporation first took to the air in December of 1979, quickly supplanting the Bell UH-1 Iroquois, (a.k.a. "Huey"), as the primary multi-role helicopter of the United States Armed Forces. Distinguishable by a folding tail for reducing its footprint aboard ship, the Seahawk has proved a rugged workhorse throughout its career, and is currently forecasted to remain in service well into the 21st century.

_U.S.S. Saipan (LHA-2):_ Commissioned in October of 1977, Saipan was the second of five assault carriers in the Tarawa Class. Along with her sisters Tarawa, Belleau Wood, Nassau and Peleliu, they were tasked with launching and supporting amphibious invasions of hostile coasts, and could embark an entire reinforced battalion of over 1,700 combat-ready Marines with all equipment in addition to the ship's regular crew. Currently, U.S.S. Peleliu (LHA-5) is the only member of the class still in active service.

_U.S.S. The Sullivans (DDG-68):_ A guided missile destroyer of the Arleigh-Burke Class, The Sullivans is named for five brothers, (George, Francis, Joseph, Madison and Albert), all of whom were lost in November of 1942 when their ship, the U.S.S. Juneau, was sunk by a Japanese submarine during the battle of Guadalcanal. The second ship of the U.S. Navy to carry this name, The Sullivans is a fully modern warship, boasting quasi-stealth design and the latest incarnation of the Navy's formidable "Aegis" combat information and management system.

_JSOC:_ The _Joint Special Operations Command_ is a department within the Pentagon tasked to study special operations requirements and techniques, ensure interoperability and equipment standardization, plan and conduct special operations exercises and training missions, and develop Joint Special Operations Tactics.

Created in 1980 during the aftermath of the spectacularly-botched "Operation Eagle Claw," JSOC has conducted dozens of operations throughout the world over the years, including "Operation Neptune's Spear" in May of 2011, which resulted in the death of the world's most wanted terrorist, Osama Bin Laden.

_B-45 Tornado:_ A product of North American Aviation and first flown in March of 1947, the B-45 was America's first operational jet bomber and the first jet to ever be refueled in the air. Initiated as a panic response to the development of jet bombers such as the Arado Ar-234 by Nazi Germany, the Tornado would be plagued by engine problems and other technical difficulties throughout its service life, but would still play a vital role as a strategic bomber and reconnaissance aircraft during the Korean War. Further impact was made by the Tornado starting in the spring of 1952, when 40 airframes were selected for "Operation Fandango." With the implementation of several key modifications, the program upgraded the aging B-45s to the status of nuclear capability.

By the end of the 1950's all surviving Tornados had been pulled from service, save a select few that remained as test aircraft into the 1970s.

And as a side note, it's worth pointing out that this aircraft has no relation to the Panavia GR-4 Tornado currently in service with the British Royal Air Force, German Luftwaffe and Marineflieger, Italian Air Force and Royal Saudi Air Force. As a thoroughly modern, muti-role intermediate bomber and strike aircraft, the Panavia Tornado is essentially to the B-45 what a Ford Model T is to a Lamborghini Diablo.

_F-86/D Sabre Dog:_ Representing a major advance in the development of jet fighters everywhere, the F-86/D was a highly-evolved trans-sonic all-weather interceptor variant of North American's venerable F-86 Sabrejet. Distinguishable from earlier variants by its large radome, longer fuselage and under-slung engine intake, the Sabre Dog shared only a 25% commonality with its older cousins, but proved a major improvement in the fields of low-altitude speed and weapons capability.

_Hugh Walter McElroy:_ Chief Purser aboard the R.M.S. Titanic. Essentially the business manager of the ship while at sea, he and his assistant Reginald Baker conducted their affairs from a pair of offices. The primary of these was to the starboard side of the Grand Staircase on C-Deck and consisted of a large business office, an enquiry office, and McElroy's own cabin. Assistant Purser Baker meanwhile tended the second-class office on E-Deck, adjacent to the Aft Grand Staircase. From these locations, the two men rented deck chairs, sold tickets for the swimming, electric and Turkish baths, tabulated receipts from the various bars and restaurants, and dispatched outgoing messages to the Marconi Room on Boat Deck via a pneumatic mail tube.

Known for his gentile manner and excellent sense of humor, McElroy was well known amongst regular patrons of the White Star Lines. Dining at the Chief Purser's table was considered quite the honor on voyages to which he was assigned, and many clients would specifically arrange their travel itineraries to sail on these trips.

On the night of the sinking, McElroy assisted with the loading of lifeboats on the starboard side and was last seen accompanying Captain Smith as they made their way toward the Mail Room. His body was recovered and identified days later by the salvage ship MacKay-Bennett, but was found to be in such an advanced state of decomposition that preservation was deemed impossible. He was buried at sea along with fourteen other victims on April 22nd, at around 8:00 PM.

_Forty-Two:_ Tommy's answer to Jack's question of "how the story ends" is a reference to... Aw heck! I'm not gonna explain the whole thing here! Just Google "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" and prepare to be both befuddled and amazed. Or even better, pick yourself up a copy and start reading. Books are our friends, after all.

And so, with a little more information on the table, the soup begins to thicken even more. But what dangers lay beyond the horizon for the Titanic, it passengers, and our two star-crossed lovers? What will Jack be facing up there amongst the clouds? How will Rose deal with all of this new information? Will Jack ever actually explain the base premise of the _Back to the Future_ trilogy? And will somebody please explain it to me? I mean, the car is totally cool and what not, but half the time I wind up staring at the screen and saying, _"huh?"_ Seriously, I haven't had this much trouble following along since that time on the BBC website when I watched _"Connections"_ with James Burke and actually wound up forgetting what _decade_ it was. Can you dig it? I actually forgot the freakin' _decade!_ Now _that's_ some time-twisting stuff there, folks!

But anyway, I suppose my spiel here is just about done. You all know the drill regarding my review/reply exchange policy: Same one-to-one ratio as always. Everyone stay frosty out there, and I'll catch you all on the rebound!

Toodles!

_Nutzkie…_


	4. Killer Angels

**Usual Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

Alright! We all know the drill, so there's no need to go into a great deal of detail here. After all, disclaimers such as this are the literary equivalent of a speed bump at the end of your driveway. So let's just get through this quick and clean, and then move on to the reason that we're all _really_ here.

_Titanic_ is the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox, and about a half-dozen or so other production studios who managed to snag a piece of that action back in the late nineties. I personally don't own squat, so if you're ticked off and looking to sue, good luck, 'cause you can't get blood from a turnip. I hope you hire an expensive lawyer and run up a _huge_ legal bill, dip wad! (Gawd, being broke can be so liberating!)

Beyond that, anything not found in the movie or on the ocean floor could be construed as mine, I suppose. Although I'm sure there's some legal-eagle out there somewhere who would relish the opportunity to argue otherwise.

In short, the movie belongs to Jimmy Cameron, the profits belong to the studios, the Titanic belongs to the ages, this software belongs to Bill Gates, my kidneys belong to my bookie, and all your base belong to us!

Onward and upward…

* * *

**~ Chapter Four ~**

_**Killer Angels**_

She was awakened early the next morning by the first rays of daylight, streaming through the porthole above and breaking across her face. Groggily she wiped the radiant warmth from her cheek and rolled over… and almost immediately noticed the empty space beside her.

With her heart surging into her throat she shot up from the pillow and surveyed her surroundings. Jack's Swedish roommates were still snoring merrily away across the room, having apparently turned in late the previous night. Near the door, the familiar dark-haired form of Fabrizio was standing with his back turned, his hands occupied with buttoning the multi-hued green shirt that matched his trousers.

"Fabrizio!" she cried out, a rising panic within her voice.

The olive-skinned Italian-American turned around at the mention of his name, a polite smile playing across his face.

"Well good morning, Miss Rose." He grinned pleasantly.

"Where's Jack?" she demanded. "And Tommy for that matter! Where did they go?"

"I'm fine, thanks for asking." Fabrizio sniffed indignantly. "And to answer your question, they're both gearing up out in the hall."

Rose didn't need to hear anything more than that. Without even bothering to smooth the wrinkles from her dress she bolted from the bed and lunged for the door, nearly knocking Fabrizio over in the process. The brass hinges screamed in protest as she tore the door open and burst into the corridor, drawing startled stares from a dozen or so nearby individuals, two of whom she was quite familiar with.

Jack and Tommy both stood tall amongst the small crowd, making final adjustments to their uniforms and apparently engaging in some menial work-related chatter.

"So did you hear the latest about ol' Ed Pealey over in VMA-one-twenty, Jackie?"

"You mean Crazy Eddie? No, why? What's he up to?"

"He just transferred squadrons."

"Really? What's he flying now?"

"V-22."

"Ospreys?"

"That's what they're saying."

"He's transferred to transports?"

"Hand to God."

Jack smiled, shook his head and laughed lightly.

"Well he always was a weird one, I suppose."

"Personally, I think the tilting rotors appeal to his personality."

It was at this point in the conversation that Tommy noticed the staring redhead in their midst.

"Well, well… Look whose finally up." he observed with his typical smart-aleck tone. "We were worried you were gonna sleep through all the excitement."

She paid no attention to the snide remark. There was only one person in this crowd whose attentions she was interested in.

"Morning sleepyhead!" Jack greeted her as he turned. His joy quickly turned to confusion however, when Rose threw herself into his arms and buried her face into his chest, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso.

"When I woke up and you weren't there," she explained softly after several seconds, "I thought you'd already left… without saying goodbye. I feared the worst."

"Geez, I'm sorry 'bout that, Rosebud." Jack gently consoled her. "You slept right through the alarm going off, and you just looked so darn peaceful that… well… I just didn't have the heart to wake you."

"Well your chivalry is duly appreciated, young knight." She smiled in return, vastly relieved to now know that she hadn't missed his departure. "But you needn't worry yourself about my restfulness. All I need is to know is that you're safe."

It was then that she pulled back from him a few inches and surveyed his appearance. He and Tommy both were wearing gray jump suits with a variety of patches sewn along various points. There was an American flag over his left breast with a golden pair of shielded wings, superimposed over an anchor, pinned directly below it. Meanwhile, over his right breast there sat the image of a phoenix in full flame, its fiery wings spread wide and its burning talons clutching an unfurled banner bearing the slogan _"Speed, Strength, Stealth."_

Beyond that, sets of stripes and rockers upon his shoulders indicated a position of some rank, and below it all, a pair of black boots shined like mirrors beneath the incandescent lights. He stood tall and proud, a man ready for battle, and at once she found the sight of it all to be both exhilarating and terrifying.

And that brought the fear in her heart to the fore once more.

Pressing herself into him again, she wrapped her slender arms tightly around his chest with as much strength as she could muster and drew a deep and shuddering breath. The anxiety was simply killing her. She needed this to be finished. She needed to see him back in her arms, shipboard and safe once more. She needed this whole blasted thing to be over and done with so she could put all of the fear and worry behind her and get on with living her happily-ever-after, her Prince Charming by her side.

"Please don't go." She croaked into his breast, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"I have to." He softly replied, his heart breaking with every syllable. God, why did it all have to happen like this?

"It's six o'clock, Jackie." Tommy gently informed the group as he tied off a red bandanna around his head. "Time to move out."

"I have to go now." Jack sighed, his voice ringing deep with regret. He leaned forward to gently kiss the top of Rose's head and quietly slipped from her grasp. There was a silent yet meaningful look shared between himself, Tommy and Fabrizio, who had by now joined the group in the hallway. Then, without another word, they set off toward the Third-Class Dining Saloon and the stairs beyond that would take them to the Grand Staircase, and ultimately the First-Class Lounge.

The trip turned out to be something other than what they expected. All throughout the narrow corridors, a mass of humanity seemed to materialize out of the woodwork as the group made their way forward. Word had apparently spread quickly amongst the denizens of steerage that these three men were somehow linked to the fantastic events of the previous night, and that somehow their own lives and those of their loved ones rested in the trio's hands. Prayers and words of encouragement were offered in a multitude of languages as they pushed past. Men removed their hats in respect and many women could be seen crossing themselves as they silently mouthed the words of the Lord's Prayer, strings of rosary beads clutched firmly in their trembling hands. Occasionally a small child would dart forth from the throng to pull at one of their pant legs and offer a toothy smile of gratitude. It was a moving display if there ever was one: A mass of humanity, staring into the face of mortal peril with nothing to offer their protectors but their hopes and gratitude, and yet offering that small gesture in the fullest measure possible.

And as grand a display as it may have been, it only became grander as they reached the dining saloon. The large room was packed shoulder to shoulder with people of all manner of race, creed, gender and ethnicity. Many had taken to standing on tables or climbing support columns to afford themselves a better view, and throughout it all were the same pleading expressions of fear and hope, apprehension and thanks.

Jack's eyes drifted to his left, and he caught sight of little Cora nestled snugly in her father's arms. Her young face, so pure and innocent, carried within it a wonder and a worry that seemed very out of place amidst her cherubic features. Her blue eyes bored straight into his soul, bearing questions about just who her favorite uncle truly was, and begging assurance that everything would turn out all right in the end… that she and her parents would be safe.

He offered her a reassuring nod and a smile, silently wishing he could give her so much more. He couldn't imagine what was going on inside her young mind. Finding out that everything you thought you knew about a loved one was a lie… that was a difficult thing to take, even for a mature adult. But for a child of barely seven years old, it could be nothing short of soul crushing. Perhaps she would understand the reasons behind his deceit someday. Perhaps she would forgive him for his transgressions. For now, he could only pray that someday she would find her way clear to do just that.

But sadly, the call of duty was ringing loudly in his ears. There was a job to do, and if any of those hopeful souls were to live to see the sunset that evening, he would need to ensure that job was done.

The group began wordlessly pushing their way through the crowd once more, acknowledging the occasional words encouragement and thanks as they were offered. As they neared the stairs to E-Deck, Jack became aware of a familiar presence behind him, tagging along just far enough behind to go unnoticed by most, but not by his own keen senses.

"If you're coming with Rose, then you might as well walk up here with the rest of us." He said without turning around. It wasn't but a few seconds before the swooshing of a satin dress and fiery mane of red curls were keeping stride right beside him.

"You're very observant." She flatly remarked.

"Being in combat will do that to you."

The crowds seemed to thin somewhat as they made their way up the stairs to E-Deck, and by the time they stepped through the service door into the base of the Grand Stairway, they were virtually alone. Apparently the majority of the first-class passenger list was either still asleep in their cabins, or were awaiting the morning's events in the lounge.

Standing at the base of the stairs, Fabrizio glanced upward and groaned as he surveyed the four decks that they would soon be ascending.

"Anybody up for a little cardio this morning?" he plaintively asked.

"Or perhaps we should be asking the better question?" Tommy offered, stalking his way around to the backside of the stairs. "Why not skip the resistance training and take the easy way up?" He mashed his thumb onto the "lift call" button and crossed his arms in anticipation. His efforts were rewarded moments later when the middle set of paneled doors opened to reveal an immaculately-dressed lift attendant standing ready at his post.

"A-Deck please, and skip whatever's in between." He instructed as the wrought iron gate was swung open and the mismatched quartet crowded themselves inside.

At first, the ride up was silent. The only discernable sound being the squeak of pulleys and the whirring of the cable as it spooled itself up into the shaft above them. But then, somewhere between decks C and D, Jack began humming to himself. It was a familiar tune… one that Rose quickly placed as _"The Battle Hymn of the Republic,"_ but the reasons behind such a musical excursion eluded her. Then without any warning, he began adding unfamiliar words to the familiar melody.

"When I was a little lad, t'was only seventeen…

_The sorriest excuse for a man that you have ever seen…_

_But then the Firebirds they came and made a man of me…_

_Now the fire burns in me…_

_Glory, glory I'll be screaming through the sky…_

_Glory, glory I am not afraid to die…_

_Glory, glory like a torch for all to see…_

_The fire burns in me."_

By this point, Jacks voice was no longer alone. Both Fabrizio and Tommy had joined in as the trio softly recited the verses of what Rose and the attendant could only assume was something of a personal anthem for them.

"When evil marches forward and the end it seems grows nigh…

_I shall stand against the darkness and shall spit right in its eye…_

_Bearing spirit's strength within me I shall slay it by and by…_

_For the fire burns in me…_

_Glory, glory I'll be screaming through the sky…_

_Glory, glory I am not afraid to die…_

_Glory, glory like a torch for all to see…_

_The fire burns in me."_

_And through the snow and wind and hail and darkness of the night..._

_I shall always do my duty, always keeping up the fight..._

_Upholding freedom's honor, always doing what is right..._

_As the fire burns in me…_

_Glory, glory I'll be screaming through the sky…_

_Glory, glory I am not afraid to die…_

_Glory, glory like a torch for all to see…_

_The fire burns in me."_

She assumed they could have continued on, but any further serenading was cut short by the tone of a bell announcing that they had arrived at their destination. Filing out of the lift, the four of them rounded their way back toward the stairs, passing beneath the morning glow of the ornamental glass dome and drawing astonished stares from the upper-class passengers that they had yet encountered. Such attentions were ignored however, as the group simply brushed past with purpose of intent and swept down the corridor leading to the lounge.

Mirrored walls gleamed with morning light as sunshine poured in through the arched windows that rimmed the vaulted ceiling. The spacious room was already well occupied: A highly unusual occurrence for such an early hour, and a cacophony of conversation filled the various alcoves and open spaces that defined the room. The majority of such conversations stopped however, when the four most recent arrivals stepped through the oaken door and surveyed their surroundings.

Braxton was standing across the near end of the room, sipping a cup of coffee and having an apparent conversation with Captain Smith. They both stood next to the tables that had been set up the previous evening, the finely varnished surfaces now being occupied by a strange series of flat, butterfly-like devices and an unintelligible tangle of wires. A plain white bed sheet hung from the wall directly above the ornate French Baroque fireplace, concealing the landscape painting underneath. Braxton acknowledged their arrival with a nod, but continued his conversation with the Captain.

"So we'll have one of our men stationed on the bridge with your regular officers." He informed the bearded old man of the sea. "He'll be in constant radio contact with our combat command and control center, so any required maneuvers will be relayed through him."

"Very well. I shall inform my officers accordingly." Smith agreed.

"Also, I know that they're only your customers and aren't duty-bound to obey your every instruction, but if you could keep the passengers away from open decks and exterior compartments, it would be prudent. At least some of the incoming ordinance today will be of an armor piercing variety, so a good rule of thumb would be to avoid any room with a window."

"Understood." Smith acquiesced. "Is there anything else you require?"

"Negative sir. Just maintain open channels of communication for now. If anything comes up you'll be the first to know."

"Very well then. I shall see to my charges." Smith replied, offering his hand to Braxton. "And I want you to know good sir, that no matter the outcome of this battle we now face, each and every one of us are eternally in your debt."

"Just doing our duty, sir." Braxton replied with a shrug, shaking the offered hand. "But you're welcome just the same."

"And may the grace of God go with you and your men." Smith offered as a parting remark before turning and disappearing into the corridor leading back to the grand staircase, leaving Braxton free to address the balance of his duties.

With a plaintive groan he massaged the bridge of his nose, pondering the mystery of just how the heck he had ever managed to wind up here. Growing up on the plains of East Texas, the ocean had been about the farthest thing from his mind. The nearest body of water to his home was a lake, and even that was more than 80 miles distant. He could remember wading across it at the height of the rainy season, while the summer months would find him and his friends making clay pots out of its bottom.

The path that had led him from that dusty mud hole to the Naval Academy at Annapolis was in every sense a convoluted one, and truth be told even _he_ didn't understand it entirely. He had been half-way through his final year before he even decided whether to take his commission in the regular Navy or the Corps. Winding up here, standing on a ghost ship in the North Atlantic, more than seven decades in advance his own birth... It was the absolute last place he had ever expected to be.

But there would be other times for dwelling on such ironies. For right now, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

"Morning, Firebirds." He greeted them in a down-to-earth manner, turning and taking a long sip of coffee. "Nice of you to join us."

"Good to be here, sir." Tommy returned the salutation. "And may I say thank you for choosing Miracle Airlines: The only airline that allows you to…"

"I swear to _God_ Tommy, if you say _'fly now and pray later,'_ I'm gonna give you a fifty caliber enema!" Jack growled, cutting Tommy off.

"Fine, mister critical." Tommy huffed indignantly. "Forgive me for trying to warm up the room."

"There's a big difference between warming up a room and clearing it." Fabrizio observed.

"Oooh! Rush him to the burn unit!" Jack snickered.

"And thank you for that fine intro." Braxton growled, clearly in no mood for such Tom Foolery. "Now would misters Larry, Moe and Curly mind taking their places so we can get this show on the road please?"

"_Soitenly, Cap'n!"_ Tommy squeaked as the trio stepped forward. A small group of men quickly approached them and as Jack and Tommy both stood with their arms spread, began strapping the two of them into bizarre and bulky harnesses that featured a variety of strange protrusions and pouches.

"First off, we received some further intel reports overnight." Braxton began to explain as the worker bees busily went about the process of strapping equipment onto the two pilots in their midst. "A handful of the Tornados you'll be facing today have been equipped to function as torpedo bombers, so the rule of thumb is if you see something coming in hot at masthead level, shoot it."

"Understood." Jack and Tommy simultaneously acknowledged.

"Additionally, while many of the Sabers you'll be facing still have the original banks of fifty caliber machine guns, a few have been upgraded to carry quad twenty millimeters, so watch out for that. Also, although we can't be certain, one or two may have been modified to carry dual thirty millimeters in their wing roots."

"Well _that's_ certainly a step up." Jack observed.

"Agreed." Braxton conceded. "Now in terms of your own birds, I know you're already well acquainted with the subtleties of the AV-8D, so I won't bore you with a lot of detail. But just for your own reference, you'll each be equipped with a pair of Sparrows and four Sidewinders."

"What's the version of those 'Winders?" Tommy inquired, wincing lightly as one of the assisting crewmen cinched a strap across his chest.

"AIM-9X, advanced variant."

"Cool!"

"Beyond that, you've got the GAU-12 at your disposal with a full load-out to boot, so don't feel compelled to leave anything for Miss Manners."

"Roger that."

"Now given the situation were facing, we fully expect the enemy to use swarm tactics in the hopes that their numeric advantage can overcome our technological one. And I don't have to tell you gents what that means. This battle will likely be fought at close range… a real knife fight in a phone booth. There should be a lot of gunnery involved, so for your sakes I hope your dogfighting skills are up to snuff."

"Only one way to find out." Jack quipped as one of his assistants tugged on his shoulder straps to confirm they were secure.

"Now, on the topic of call signs," Braxton pressed onward, grabbing a file from a nearby table and quickly flipping through it, "we'll be using a canine theme. The lounge area here will function as our combat information and control center. Our handle will be 'Dogcatcher.' Ay-whacks duties will be covered by an E-3 of the nine-sixty-second Air Control Squadron operating under the call sign 'Watchdog.'"

"Sir?"

"Yes corporal?" Braxton answered the young enlisted man who had just entered the room.

"We're stringing wire for the communications array up on the compass tower and the cables we have won't reach all the way." He demonstrated his point by gently tugging at the coil of wire he held in his hand.

"Well then run it through a window, corporal." Braxton groaned, silently wondering how six weeks of boot camp could produce men with so little common sense.

"These windows don't open sir." The young corporal answered meekly.

Braxton simply turned and glared down upon him.

"Yes sir! Opening the window, sir!" the corporal snappily replied, grabbing a cigarette stand from the floor and testing it for heft as he marched toward one of the elegant arch-topped openings.

_SMASH!_

Tucked into the far corner, John Ismay could be seen to visibly flinch as the sound of breaking glass filled the room.

"As I was saying gentlemen," Braxton continued, "on-board lookouts will operate under the call sign 'Top Dog,' and will be assigned the following sub designations…"

"Sir?"

"WHAT?" Braxton rounded on the interrupting corporal once more.

"This window doesn't go where we want it to." He informed, indicating the now exposed and rather unimpressive view of the enclosed A-Deck Promenade.

"Higher up." Braxton groaned, running a hand over his face.

"Ah! Got it, sir!" the corporal saluted, taking note of the arched clearstory window above.

_SMASH!_

A solitary tear ran down Ismay's face.

"Top Dog Alfa will be in the forward crow's nest along with the two regular lookouts." Braxton continued once more. "Bravo and Charlie will be assigned to the port and starboard wing bridges respectively. Top Dog Delta will consist of two men and be positioned on high ground in the Number Four funnel. The port and starboard sides of the aft docking bridge will be designated Top Dog Echo and Foxtrot respectively. DiVienci… you'll be posted to Delta Station along with Lieutenant Mullins. Any questions so far?"

"Negative, sir."

"Very good then. Our primary force will be split into two flights of four ships each. Bulldog flight will be stationed at a point due west of our current position, five miles out at Angels Two. Pit Bull flight will mirror that position to the east. Either flight can be rapidly redeployed, depending on situational developments. And that brings me to you two fine upstanding gentlemen."

"Who? Where?" Tommy asked confusedly, quickly glancing behind them.

"Your assignment," Braxton continued as if nothing had happened, "is as our secondary line of defense. Working together, you will establish a protective orbit around the ship at a range of two miles. If anything hostile gets past our primary fighter screen, it's your job to make sure it doesn't get any closer than that."

"And what if it does, sir?" Jack asked as someone plunked down a rather large brown and white striped helmet onto his head from behind.

"Let's just try to make sure that it doesn't." Braxton admitted with a concerned bob of his head. "Beyond you boys, all we've got are a pair of DMS launchers: One on the roof of the bridge and the other on top the second-class stairwell. They're pretty effective against choppers, but fast movers like we're facing are another matter entirely. We might be able to fight off one or two attack runs, but if it gets to be more than that… Well, let's just hope that a lot of folks here took swimming lessons when they were young."

"Understood." Jack flatly nodded in confirmation.

"Your flight's call sign will be 'Boxer.' Badger?"

"Yes sir?" Jack answered crisply.

"You'll be 'Boxer One.' Joker?"

"Yeah boss?" Tommy answered as an attendant crowned him with a helmet painted to resemble the headdress of a medieval court jester.

"You're 'Boxer Two.'"

"Boxer flight." Jack sniffed derisively, clearly under-whelmed with the code name.

"Could be worse." Tommy helpfully offered. "Could be 'Poodle Flight.'"

"Yeah," Jack chuckled, "or 'Corgie!'"

"Or 'Shar-Pei!'"

"'Shitz-Zu!'"

"Would you two comedians just save it for the Academy already?" Braxton barked. "And while your busy shutting the hell up, are there any questions? Choose your response to that query wisely, I might add."

"Sir! No sir!"

"Smart move." Braxton sighed with satisfaction as he checked his watch. "Very well then. We start the clock on _Operation Frozen Fire_ in a little over ten minutes. I'll leave you to address any last minute preparations you may have and make your own ways out to the flight deck. Good luck and God speed, gentlemen." All four men saluted each other crisply and Braxton turned on his heel toward the far end of the room, leaving the trio and their redheaded companion alone with their thoughts and the curious stares of the two dozen or so passengers and crew who happened to be present.

"Well I suppose that's all we're gonna get out of him." Tommy sighed as he fastened the chinstrap of his helmet. "You wanna take a moment and go through your pre-flight routine now, Jackie?"

Jack took a deep gulp of air through the oxygen mask that dangled from one side of his helmet and released it slowly, confirming that the device was functioning properly.

"Yeah, might as well." He sighed, and turned toward a deserted corner of the room. Rose made to follow, but was quickly restrained by Tommy's hand on her shoulder.

"Sorry, hon… Not this time." He whispered into her ear. "This is sort of his 'personal time' before a mission. It's best we leave him alone for the moment."

In silent curiosity, Rose raptly watched as Jack faced the corner and reached into his uniform, pulling out a small object of unknown identity. He palmed the object gently, running it through his fingers as he bowed his head and stood motionless.

"What does he have there?" Rose whispered to Tommy.

"A crucifix." Tommy informed her. "It belonged to his father, that much I know. But it may have been in his family for a lot longer than that. I really don't know the whole back-story. It's all part of a little ritual he goes through every time we go up." He rolled his eyes slightly. "You know how it is with Lutherans: All about procedure."

"So he's praying for protection?"

"More like begging for forgiveness." Tommy corrected. "Jack's the sort of guy who takes the whole 'killing for a living' thing pretty seriously. He may seem like he's tough as nails on the outside, but beneath that he's actually a pretty sensitive fellow."

"I know." Rose whispered almost inaudibly, noting that Tommy's words only served to confirm something that she had been sensing about her lover for some time now.

"So the two of you have done this sort of thing before?" she finally inquired after several seconds of watching Jack's silent form from across the room.

"All the time." Tommy admitted. "He's my wingman. We've been watching each other's backs up there now for the better part of nine years. Started back in Afghanistan... Operation Anaconda."

"And you're both good, right?"

"None better… Or at least we like to think so."

"Perfect! Then I want you to promise me one thing, Thomas."

"Sure. Anything."

Without warning, she reached out and grabbed him by the straps of his harness, pulling him in close until their noses were almost touching.

"Bring him home safe." She pleaded desperately. "Just promise me you'll do that, because I simply can't bear to lose him… Not so soon after having found him. I'm begging you. Just bring him back to me in one piece. That's all I ask."

Tommy looked deep into her emerald eyes and smiled the warmest and most genuine smile she had ever seen on a face other than Jack's.

"I promise." He assured her.

Rose released a heavy breath that she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. That one, simple promise did more to put her mind at ease than hours of rationalization and self-assurance and an entire night spent sleeping beside her beloved had done.

"Thank you." She gratefully whispered. "Thank you _oh_ so much."

"So what are we talking about?"

Rose jumped a little bit at the sudden intrusion. In all of her worried ruminations, she had completely failed to notice Jack's approach.

"Nothing!" she said a little too quickly. "Nothing at all."

"Yeah. Just hashing out some odds and ends. Nothing important." Tommy played along. Jack raised a suspicious eyebrow, but said nothing. Whatever this small patch of weirdness was about, there were undoubtedly more pressing issues at the moment.

"Well then, I guess it's time to go and face the music." He said with a deep breath. "You ready for this, Tommy boy?"

"I was born ready." Tommy confirmed, clapping Jack on the shoulders.

"Then let's light this candle." Jack reciprocated, returning the gesture in kind.

"Time to kick the tires and light the fires." Tommy grinned. "Right Maverick?"

"Right, Goose!"

Turning toward the lounge's rear entrance, the trio began making their way aft. Their progress was swift as Jack and Tommy both strode with purpose, and Rose hurried to keep up. From a few steps behind the pair she noted how impressive it was for them to maintain such a pace. The bulky harnesses they wore were cumbersome and awkward to say the least. And given some of the narrow hallways they were being forced to pass through, it was amazing that they were able to do anything more than waddle.

But as impressive as their progress may have been, it ground to a halt when they entered the atrium of the Aft Grand Stairway and found themselves face to face with the last person on earth any of them wanted to see at that moment.

"I'm terribly sorry to intrude," the hated man spoke with mock politeness, although his expression indicated no such regret, "but I wondered if I may speak with Mister Dawson for a moment… _in private."_

"Stick it in your ear and blow it out your nose, Hockley." Tommy sneered.

Jack however, seemed far more nonplused by the proposition: A surprising fact, considering the personal history he already shared with the steel tycoon.

"You guys hang here for a moment. I'll be right back." He softly yet firmly told his companions.

"You sure about this, Jackie?" Tommy asked incredulously. "This isn't exactly the president of your fan club here, you know."

"I'll be all right." Jack reassured his friend before turning back to Cal. "You got someplace in mind?" he asked.

"Right this way." Cal indicated the paneled doors leading to the Palm Court Veranda. He was quick to step through them and Jack followed suit, leaving a somewhat confused and worried Tommy and Rose behind.

"You've got two minutes, so make 'em count." Jack flatly said once the door had swung closed, leaning back against a nearby wicker table and crossing his arms.

"Very well. Right down to business it is then." Cal began with a clearing of his throat. "We're both gentlemen here, right?"

"Debatable."

"And as gentlemen, we're also men of reason." Cal continued, ignoring the slight. "So as one reasonable man to another, I would like to offer to you a business proposition of a sort."

"Really?" Jack scoffed. "You? Doing business with _me?_ Kind of fighting below our weight class, aren't we?"

"You said it. Not me." Cal smirked. "But be that as it may, this is my offer to you." Jack stiffened and reflexively moved a hand toward the nine-millimeter pistol on his hip as Cal reached inside his jacket. He quickly relaxed however, when Cal withdrew not a weapon, but a large stack of bills.

"Here." He flatly stated, tossing the bundle onto the table. "Since you obviously won't be dissuaded by matters of social station or common decency, perhaps this will satiate your purpose with pursuing my fiancé."

With a wary eye on Cal, Jack picked up the stack and flipped through it. There appeared to be around five thousand dollars present, all of it crisp and genuine. Hockley was apparently serious about maintaining his control over Rose, and the cavalier manner in which he was trying to exert that control only made Jack's revulsion with this man grow stronger.

"Really? You think _this_ is what's it's all been about?" he asked incredulously, waving the stack of bills in Cal's face. "Do you honestly think this has all just been about _money?"_

"Well, logic would certainly dictate…"

"Maybe for you it would!" Jack snapped, standing up and stepping forward in seething rage. "For you, everything's about money! You spend your life obsessing over it! You think it makes you superior to others! You think having it allows you it to buy and sell anything and everything in the world, including other people! Well I've got news for you, King Midas! Not everyone is like you! Not all of us have a roll of hundreds stuffed where our heart should be!

"You know what your problem is, Hockley?" he continued to shout. "You think _this_ is an acceptable stand in for human emotion!" He threw the wad of bills back in Cal's face. "You think things like love and respect can be reduced to numbers on a balance sheet! That relationships can be traded like commodities! Well let me tell you something! Rose isn't an asset you can acquire as part of some sick backroom business deal! She's not a fashion accessory for you to flaunt at parties and lock up in your safe the moment you get home! She's a living, breathing, beautiful person with wants and needs and a will of her own, and she needs someone who will respect her for who she is! Someone who can provide her with the love and freedom she deserves!

"And I suppose you think _you're_ the one to give her all of that?" Cal sneered, crossing his arms and throwing back his head to look down his nose at the younger man before him. "In case you hadn't noticed, you aren't exactly a man of impressive means. A woman like Rose requires a certain level of financial resourcefulness to be adequately looked after."

"She's not a Labrador retriever, Hockley." Jack scowled. "She doesn't need to be sheltered and kept after like a family pet. She's capable of making her own decisions… of living her own life. And she doesn't need all of the material trappings of wealth that you seem so obsessed with. She's her own person, and if you'd ever actually cared for her, you would have figured that out by now."

Jack breathed deeply and gently massaged the bridge of his nose, calming himself as he lamented how difficult it could sometimes be to communicate with a person whose entire value system was 180 degrees off from your own.

"Honestly, I'm not surprised that you don't get it." He sighed as he continued to explain. "The problem with men like you is that they're only capable of experiencing human emotion in increments of an eighth of a point at a time. It's hubris that defines your world, and while that singular obsession has brought you wealth beyond the dreams of Artemis, it's also left you blind to the better parts of life. With your fortune you can buy the sky itself, but you can't see the simple beauty of a sunset… You're waited on hand and foot by so many staff that you never get to experience the sense of accomplishment inherent in completing a simple task… And you become so used to having your relationships fall within the context of a business transaction that you eventually become unable to forge any real bond with another human being. You wind up being condemned to a life of luxurious isolation, surrounded by a world that you can buy and sell at will, but never truly enjoy. You're like a taxidermy fish, Cal: Prim, proper and polished on the surface… but a dead and hollowed-out shell underneath. And for that reason, I actually feel sorry for you."

Call sniffed derisively as he stuffed the bundle of cash back into his pocket, clearly unimpressed with Jack's little speech. The notion of this penniless peasant feeling sorry for _him?_ It was enough to make him simultaneously both laugh and wretch.

"Well, I certainly do admire your principals," he said, the sneer on his lips betraying the insincerity of his words, "but I still maintain that you're making a substantial mistake. You may deride what you consider the corrupting influences of wealth sir, but in the final accounting it's money that makes the world work. And my generous offer would go a long way toward making _your_ particular world work in a far better manner than you currently enjoy."

"Oh really?" Jack laughed in derision. "How much _was_ that there? About five grand? Let me clue you in on a little secret here, my friend. You may consider that to be a small fortune, but where I come from, I call it about two month's salary… _if even that!"_

"You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe." Cal scoffed, straightening his jacket.

"Believe what you want," Jack replied with a smirk, "but try to remember that you've got more than a century of inflation working against you here. I'm sure a sharp financial mind such as yours can estimate just how little your five thousand dollars will be able to buy in a hundred years' time."

Cal's face immediately fell with Jack's words. In all of his scheming, he hadn't even considered the temporal gap that existed between himself and his third-class adversary. The plain truth was that in this situation, his vast fortune didn't afford him nearly the leverage that it normally did. If he was going to win this little game, as he always did, a change of tactics was in order.

"Very well then," he said straightening his shoulders, "if my initial offer is unsatisfactory to you, then feel free to make me a counter-proposal. What is it that _you_ want from this exchange?"

Jack simply shook his head and chuckled to himself. Leave it to an upper-class twit like Caledon Hockley to be so damn hardheaded about such things. An entire lifetime spent looking at the world through the lens of an accountant's ledger had left him incapable of comprehending reality by any other means.

"What I _want_ Cal," he stated, stepping forward to stare the steel magnate straight in the eye," is to tone out and slam a Sidewinder straight up your pompous ass. But unfortunately my orders are to _save_ that ass, so I guess I'll just have to console myself with that instead. Oh, and I also might add… _you're welcome!"_

For several seconds, the two men stood like statues, each matching the other glare for glare. It was a battle of the ages: Edwardian pomp and rigidity versus post-industrial social mobility, and neither side seemed willing to concede an inch.

"Your two minutes are up." Jack finally said, turning and moving toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob however, and looked contemplatively down at the floor.

"For what it's worth Cal, I hope that someday you're able to pry open that steel vault of a mind and actually experience the beauty life." He said somberly. "For your sake, I honestly pray that you do."

And with that, he opened the ornately carved door and stepped out, leaving the iron-willed aristocrat alone with his thoughts and the uncertainty of where to go from there.

"We're done here. Let's go." Jack stated as he emerged from Palm Court and turned toward the doorway leading to the Promenade.

"Wait! What just happened in there?" Rose called out after him.

"Yeah." Tommy concurred. "What did Ritchie McMoneybags have to say?"

"'Bout what you'd expect." Jack disgustedly shook his head. "He tried to buy me off."

"He did _what?"_ Rose shrieked.

"He offered me five grand cash to walk away and pretend I'd never met you." Jack elaborated. "To break it off, just like that."

"And leave him facing three whole attack squadrons with no cover?" Tommy questioned.

"I assume he meant _after_ that particular threat had been dealt with."

"True, but with something so important you'd think he'd stipulate terms."

While Jack and Tommy hashed out the finer points of contract law in this way, Rose remained surprisingly quiet on the topic. Part of her was appalled by cold and callous way in which Cal seemed to think he could quite literally purchase her hand in the same manner someone might purchase a head of livestock. But at the same time, another part of her wasn't surprised in the least. It seemed completely in character for the self-absorbed industrialist, and it only reinforced the idea in her mind that net worth and self worth were two entirely different things.

Arriving at the rear of the Promenade, Jack and Tommy both made a left turn toward the second-class stairwell. Rose had every intention of following suit, but her path of progress was abruptly redirected when she caught sight of the poop deck beyond the docking bridge. With stunned wonderment she raced to the railing and stared in disbelief.

The hunchbacked craft with spinning blades that had alighted there the night before was now gone, and in its place stood a pair of gleaming streamlined machines. Bullet-nosed with sleek lines, they each stood astride a pair of large wheels as a bicycle would, with smaller wheels extending downward from swept wings like the outriggers of a Polynesian canoe. A large teardrop-shaped enclosure of clear glass protruded near the nose, protecting what she assumed was the pilot's seat, while semi-circular openings to either side appeared to be ventilation intakes of some sort.

Wingtips were raked back and bent upward at twenty degrees… Elevators angled downward at thirty. Stanchions below the wings sprouted an assortment of multi-finned rockets, and from the tip of the nose, an eighteen-inch spike protruded forward into the air beyond. But amidst all this visual clutter, the most impressive elements were the ones that were merely painted on.

Broad yellow bands were painted across the wings tail and fuselage, each one bearing white star over a circle of royal blue. The nose was even more impressive, with stylized wind-swept flames sweeping back past the pilot's position from a menacing shark's face with glaring eyes and an angry mouth full of dagger-like teeth. Lethality and danger seemed to ooze from every seam and orifice. If ever there was a machine that by its very appearance could strike fear into the hearts of men, then this was it.

"What are these things, Jack?" she breathlessly gasped. Never before in her life had she seen anything even close to the likes of these magnificent machines of the air.

When her query netted her no answer, she turned to ask in a more direct manner… and quickly found herself alone on a deserted deck.

"_Bloody hell!"_ she silently scolded herself, realizing her mistake. With all the speed that her impractical dress and shoes could afford her, she hitched up her skirt and raced toward the second-class stairs, descending the four flights to C-Deck in record time. Practically flying, she burst through the door into open air once more, pausing just long enough to survey the decks in search of her quarry.

It didn't take long to spot Jack and Tommy as they crossed the aft well deck, and within moments she had caught up with them once more.

"Jack! Tommy! Wait!" she breathlessly gasped, thoroughly winded from her breakneck sprint.

"Whoa, Rose! What happened to you?" Jack gaped as Rose stumbled up to them.

"What… the hell… are those… things?" she managed to get out between ragged breaths.

"What, those?" Tommy inquired, nodding toward the boom-like protrusions extending from either side of the poop deck. "They're cargo cranes, I think."

"Not those things, you goof!" she growled back at him.

"Uh, I think she means our birds." Jack offered with a smirk. Sometimes his friend just didn't know when to give the comedy a rest.

"Ah, _those_ things!" Tommy observed, still keeping up the act. "Those, my lady, would be our illustrious Super Harriers."

Rose simply looked at him flatly and blinked, indicating that his words meant less than nothing to her.

"They're big, fancy flying machines with bushels of attitude and the firepower to back it up, alright?" He elaborated with a huff. "Beyond that, they're just big piles of technical mumbo jumbo that you wouldn't understand. Heck, even I don't understand half of it sometimes."

"Ditto here." Jack promptly agreed. "We just fly the things. We don't know anything about what makes them work."

"Well that's somewhat less than reassuring." Rose panned with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, but it seems to work." Jack shrugged as they continued walking aft.

Soon they were mounting the stairs to the poop deck, and Rose's eyes grew wide as the two gleaming machines came into view once more. The closer she got to them, the more magnificent they became. They looked like bullets with wings, she thought, and for the umpteenth time in the last few hours she marveled at what a strange and wonderful place the twenty-first century must be.

The glimmering silver forms held her spellbound as she blindly followed a few paces behind Jack, enthralled by the sight like a small child eyeing the gifts beneath the family tree on Christmas morning. Her own eyes could see nothing but these technological wonders from another world, and so her surprise was complete when a rough hand upon her shoulder startled her from her thoughts.

"I'm sorry ma'am," a gruff and unfamiliar voice said to her, "but this area is restricted to flight ops personnel only."

With fire burning in her emerald eyes, she rounded on the unwelcome intruder, glaring daggers into his heart. Who was he to tell her where she could and could not go?

"I beg your pardon sir, but I'm with Lieutenant Dawson." She angrily informed the man.

"Lady, I don't care if you're with Alexander the Great. This area is marked for authorized access only, and you ain't authorized!"

_Oh, this guy was sooooo asking for it!_

She was about to tear into this presumptuous bear of a man when Jack's soft touch upon her shoulder caused all her frustration to instantly melt away. But the respite proved fleeting, when his words sent a wave of dread coursing through her veins.

"I'm sorry Rose, but he's right." Jack somberly agreed. "You can't come with us any further."

She spun to face her lover, a thousand questions flashing behind her eyes and pouring unspoken into the space between them.

"But Jack… we need… I mean… I… need…" she stammered incoherently.

"It's nothing personal, Rosebud," Jack tried to explain as calmly and tenderly as he could, "but there's just a lot of dangerous equipment up here right now. We've got stuff that burns and goes 'boom' stacked up all over the deck and well, I just don't want to see you getting hurt."

"But… I don't _want_ to leave you." She informed him with as much force as she could muster, which admittedly wasn't very much at all. "I don't want _you_ to leave _me."_

"Rosie… You knew I was going to have to go up eventually." He sorrowfully reminded her. "And you knew I would be alone when I did."

He was right, of course. She had known that this moment would ultimately come. But having such foreknowledge did little cushion the emotional blow of the moment's arrival. And amidst the swirling turmoil of that moment, it was all she could do to remain upright, standing shell-shocked and silent as she searched the depths of his azure-blue eyes, probing the recesses of his soul, desperately searching for something to cling to.

So this was it: The moment that they would part ways. After three glorious days, fate now stood poised to tear them apart, perhaps permanently for all either of them knew. Danger was fast approaching on the wind… a storm that now threatened to destroy everything she had come to love and cherish. As she stood statue-still, staring into his eyes, she reluctantly acknowledged an inescapable truth: That this may very well be the last time she ever laid eyes on him. After everything that they had experienced together and somehow survived, it all now stood on the brink of oblivion, poised and ready to be irrevocably swept away by the whims of a cruel world… and a cruel god.

In this cruelest of moments, there was nothing that could be said, and only one thing that could be done.

In an instant Rose flung herself into Jack's embrace, wrapping her arms around him and holding on for dear life, as if somehow by sheer force of will she could prevent him from leaving. Even if she could only delay his departure, she would be happy with that. To have just another minute with him… another _second…_ Each and every moment she spent in his company was a good moment in her eyes, and she would fight long and hard for every such moment that she could claim.

"Rose, sweetie?" Jack addressed her, burying his face into her curls and inhaling her sweet scent.

"Mmmm-hmmm." She mumbled into his chest.

"Promise me something?"

"Yes darling. Anything!"

"Promise me that if," his words hitched in his throat, "if I don't make it back from this, that you'll go ahead with what we talked about. That you'll make good on your escape. That you'll make a clean break with all the society crap and follow your dreams… Live the life you imagined for yourself."

"I can't, Jack." She softly wept into his shoulder, dampening the flame-retardant fabric. "Not without you."

"Yes you can, Rosie." He softly reassured her. "I know you can, because you're strong… a lot stronger than you realize. I've seen that much in you. It's what makes the fire inside of you burn so bright."

"But… I'm scared."

"I know you are, darling. I know. But you've got to do this. You have to break out of that glass jar I talked about. You do remember our conversation, right?"

Roes simply nodded, confirming that she did indeed remember the heartfelt talk they'd shared in the Gymnasium. God, had that really only been two days ago?

"Then you know how important this is." Jack resolutely concluded. "You need to make a clean break. Grab the opportunity when it presents itself and run like the wind, if not for yourself then for me. Because quite frankly I didn't risk life and limb hauling you back over that railing just to see you flush your life away down that upholstered toilet known as _'high society'."_

He placed a gentle finger beneath her chin and brought her gaze up to meet his.

"Promise?" he asked again.

"I promise." She sniffed, oblivious to the tears that were still streaming down her face.

Gently, Jack leaned down and placed a tender kiss in the center of her forehead.

"Stay strong." He whispered.

"Stay alive." She softly replied.

Ignoring the Bee Gees tune that was now suddenly running through his head, he forced a weak smile onto his face and reluctantly released his precious flower from his grasp. It took every ounce of strength he could summon to let her go. In all honesty, he wanted nothing more at that moment than to wrap her in his arms, carry her back to his cabin and take her to the stars all over again. But such was not in the cards for them. The call of duty was simply too strong, and there were far larger things at stake than the mere happiness of two people.

To Rose, he seemed to move in slow motion as he turned away from her and accompanied Tommy through the shadow of the docking bridge toward the shimmering machines that awaited them. Through eyes blurred by tears she watched as they each ascended a short ladder to their assigned positions and settled themselves into the cockpits. Other personnel quickly swarmed around them, strapping the two of them into their seats and performing a series of last minute safety checks. Finally, when all was as it should be, the protective glass bubbles descended over each of them and snapped closed, sealing them off from the outside world: It was the moment of truth.

Suddenly, the salt air was filled with the high-pitched whine of turbines spinning up. Compressors began charging key systems, and a series of strange protrusions began to extend downward from the great bellies of these metallic birds.

Inside the relative silence of the cockpit, Jack scanned the trio of touch screens before him and contemplated what was happening. Thoroughly redesigned from the ground up, the Super Harrier was light years ahead of its original versions. Simple rocket nozzles now replaced the complex network of compressors and ducting that had originally allowed for vertical take off. Feeding on a hypergolic fuel mixture, they had no need for complicated ignition systems or multi-layered combustion chambers. Lightweight titanium and composite materials had replaced bulky steel and aluminum components in key areas, while state of the art computers and fly-by-wire avionics would keep his bird steady throughout its mission and guide him home safely.

…_Or at least he hoped._

He chanced a glance up from the flickering digital displays before him and felt his heart sink. Rose was still standing beneath the docking bridge, her eyes locked firmly onto his. In his mind he could almost hear her silent prayers, begging God to watch over him and bring him safely back to her. It was as if her very soul was reaching out for his, searching for some small part of him that she could keep with her, even as the physical distance between them grew.

A flurry of activity on the deck drew his attention, and he caught sight of a lone deckhand making a distinct hand gesture, the meaning of which he knew all too well.

With practiced ease he nudged the throttle forward, and the gleaming attack jet began to slowly lift itself from the deck, breaking the bonds of mother earth with seeming ease. Looking back to Rose, he drank in her immense beauty for what he hoped would not be the final time. Then, flipping down the protective visor of his helmet, he looked her square in the eyes and fired off a salute worthy of any recruiting poster.

A moment later, with enough altitude beneath it to clear the rail, the wheels of the great bird slowly retracted into its belly and it banked away, soaring out across the wave tops at an ever-increasing speed. Within moments, Tommy and his own bird had followed suit, and a relative silence reigned across the deck.

But Rose noticed none of it. Even the deckhands who rushed forward with fire extinguishers to douse the few smoldering spots on the deck held no interest for her. Her eyes remained glued the distant horizon, and the fast retreating forms of these two knights of the sky, clad in winged and shining armor. Her heart rose into her throat and a thousand butterflies beat their wings against her stomach as she watched until they were little more than silvery specks against the horizon, appearing so insignificant against the vastness of the sea. With vision blurred by the fresh tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks she observed the spectacle before her, and whispered a simple plea to the wind, praying that somehow the heartfelt message would be carried to its intended ears…

"_I love you."_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

So how's that for leaving things up in the air, huh? (Ba-dum bum _kisssh!_)

And so with the birds in the air and the bandits fast approaching, the action is about to begin, and the frigid waters of the North Atlantic are about to get a lot hotter.

And now for your recommended daily dose of technical crap:

_Bell-Boeing V-22 Osprey:_ A multi-mission medium-lift transport aircraft built to combine the versatility and functionality of a helicopter with the speed and range of a conventional turboprop aircraft. Currently deployed by the United States Marine Corps, the Osprey originally suffered from a lengthy and problem-plagued development process that included several high-profile crashes. Many engineers and military planners at the time dismissed the aircraft as an unworkable boondoggle, and many more politicians called for the program's cancellation. But insistence by Corps leadership that such a craft was vital to their operations allowed the program to continue and in 2007, after 26 years of development, the Osprey officially entered active service.

Today, the Osprey actively supplements the Corp's fleet of CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters, and is projected to one day replace them entirely. Additionally, as of 2009, the United States Air Force also fields a small fleet of Ospreys for use in air-sea-land rescue missions.

_McDonnell-Douglas AV-8B Harrier II:_ Made famous by pilots of the British Royal Navy during the Falkland Islands War of 1982, the Harrier is a second-generation multi-role ground attack aircraft. Normally tasked with close air support of ground forces, armed reconnaissance and mounting tactical strikes against hostile in-theater assets, it's most notable characteristic is its ability to operate in VTOL (Vertical Take-Off and Landing) mode.

First flown in November of 1978, the Harrier has undergone many improvements and redesigns over the years, slowly acquiring a far different appearance than its original form. And the "Super Harrier" that I mention in this chapter is really just a potential extension of that evolution.

A product of my own imagination, the AV-8D is what I like to think a next generation Harrier might look like. Adapting contemporary advances in aerodynamics and avionics, and combining them with modern material sciences, I'm able to produce a picture of what I like to think an advanced concept version of the venerable Harrier might look like. Whether I'm right or not… who knows. In the end it's all just an academic exercise, but it's an interesting proposition nonetheless.

In terms of styling though, I'll admit to having drawn inspiration from other sources. The downward angle of the tail, for example, is my own nod to the legendary _McDonnell F-4 Phantom II_ of Vietnam fame. Meanwhile, some might suspect that the angled wingtips are also a nod to the Phantom. However, when envisioning these elements, I was honestly thinking more about Boeing's latest entry into the realm of commercial aviation: The ultra-advanced _787 Dreamliner._

_DMS:_ The Dual Mount Stinger (DMS) is an adapted version of the FIM-92 Stinger short-range surface-to-air missile system built by the Hughes Missile Systems Company. Intended specifically for sale to foreign military powers, the DMS is a tripod-based launcher that mounts two missiles along with all necessary targeting hardware, coolant systems and power supplies. Small and easily portable, the Stinger and the DMS both fall under a category of weapons known as MANPADS. (Man-Portable Air Defense Systems)

_AIM-9X Sidewinder:_ A highly-advanced variant of the Sidewinder missile first deployed by the American military in Vietnam, the AIM-9X is the result of a failed cooperative effort between the United States and various European defense agencies to build a next generation short-range air-to-air missile. When the joint program stalled beneath the weight of political bickering in the early 1990s, the American Navy and Air Force decided to withdraw and forge their own path. It was quickly determined that the aging Sidewinder could be upgraded to meet the criteria set forth by the original program, and by November of 2003 the new and improved version was officially in service.

Including such features as vectored thrust for increased maneuverability and advanced counter-counter measures which allow it to tell the difference between a targeted aircraft and a decoy, the AIM-9X has quickly made a home in the American military arsenal, and many defense analysts now agree that Sidewinders of one version or another will remain in service well into the late 21st Century.

_AIM-7 Sparrow:_ A medium-range semi-active-radar-homing air-to-air missile first fielded by the United States Air Force, Navy and Marine Corps beginning in the late 1950s. Belonging to a family of weapons known as AMRAAMs (Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles) the Sparrow was in front line service through the late 1990s. Although still in use today, it is currently being phased out in favor of the more advanced AIM-120 Slammer.

_GAU-12 Equalizer:_ A five-barreled, 25-millimeter Gattling-style cannon, the GAU-12 is part of a family of similarly engineered weapons deployed aboard the aircraft of many NATO countries. Developed in the 1970s as an adaptation of the M-61 Vulcan cannon, the GAU family today includes such famous heavy-hitters as the _GAU-8 Avenger,_ which gives the A-10 Warthog its infamous bite, to the smaller and lighter _GAU-22,_ which will soon be deployed aboard the Lockheed F-35 Lightning II Joint Strike Fighter.

_AWACS:_ The thing that Lieutenant Colonel Braxton referred to as "ay-whacks" is actually an acronym; it's initials standing for the "Airborne Warning And Control System." Quite a mouthful, isn't it?

In a nutshell, the modern AWACS system is a flying radar surveillance post with the ability to simultaneously track hundreds of aircraft at altitudes ranging from the earth's surface up to over 90,000 feet. Equipped with an Identify Friend or Foe system (IFF), it can detect and track hostile aircraft and direct allied fighters onto intercept courses over a battlefield stretching more than 120,000 square miles in area.

Although AWACS hardware has been fitted onto many different airframes over the years, one of the most notable examples in the modern era is the…

_Boeing E-3 Sentry:_ Developed in the mid-1960s, the E-3 was intended to replace the U. S. Air Force's aging fleet of Lockheed EC-121 Warning Stars. For although the Warning Star had served nobly for more than a decade, its piston engines were increasingly anachronistic in a jet-powered world. A more modern replacement was needed.

Built on the airframe of Boeing's iconic 707 jetliner, the E-3 boasts a thirty-foot diameter rotating radar dish, suspended on a bipod eleven feet above the fuselage. From this position, the Westinghouse AN/APY-1 & 2 Passive Electronically Scanned Array radar systems can detect and track hundreds of airborne and surface-borne contacts from the deck all the way up to the stratosphere.

_Compass Tower:_ A short, four-legged, wooden tower that was mounted on Boat Deck, atop the raised roof of the first-class lounge between the second and third funnels. It was here that designers mounted the navigation compass, as the elevated position offered the high degree of visibility needed for taking accurate positional readings. In this way it was far different from the "steering compass" on the bridge, which was intended primarily for the benefit of the helmsman rather than the navigator. As per builder specifications, the tower mounted a _"Kelvin Standard Compass with azimuth mirror:"_ a highly sophisticated and precise instrument whose levels of accuracy approached that of even modern Global Positioning Systems.

Sadly, the Compass Tower is gone from the wreck today. Likely swept away by the current when the bow section began its two-mile descent through the water column, its wooden components would certainly have long since rotted away by now. The compass itself has yet to be recovered.

And no, I did NOT get confused at the end of the scene in the lounge. I just couldn't resist a little toss-out to the iconic 80s film, "Top Gun." Tom Cruise, please don't sue!

Well I suppose that about wraps things up for another chapter. Be sure to turn in next time when the bullets start flying and the fun really begins! (Maybe when this is over, White Star should change their logo to a bull's eye?)

Take care, one and all!

_Nutzkie…_


	5. Fire in the Sky

**Usual Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

Alright! We all know the drill, so there's no need to go into a great deal of detail here. After all, disclaimers such as this are the literary equivalent of a speed bump at the end of your driveway. So let's just get through this quick and clean, and then move on to the reason that we're all _really_ here.

_Titanic_ is the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox, and about a half-dozen or so other production studios who managed to snag a piece of that action back in the late nineties. I personally don't own squat, so if you're ticked off and looking to sue, good luck, 'cause you can't get blood from a turnip. I hope you hire an expensive lawyer and run up a _huge_ legal bill, dip wad! (Gawd, being broke can be so liberating!)

Beyond that, anything not found in the movie or on the ocean floor could be construed as mine, I suppose. Although I'm sure there's some legal-eagle out there somewhere who would relish the opportunity to argue otherwise.

In short, the movie belongs to Jimmy Cameron, the profits belong to the studios, the Titanic belongs to the ages, this software belongs to Bill Gates, my kidneys belong to my bookie, and all your base belong to us!

Onward and upward…

* * *

(Addendum Note: Sections of text printed in _italic_ fonts in this chapter indicate radio chatter... Just thought you should know.)

**~ Chapter Five ~**

_**Fire in the Sky**_

"Dun da-da-dun… dun da-da-dun… dun da-da-dun… DUN DUN DUN! Dun da-da-dun… dun da-da-dun… dun da-da-dun… DUN DUN…"

_THWACK!_

Momentarily stunned by the sudden blow to the back of his head, Fabrizio turned to face his companion in the sparse and windy confines of the aft funnel, regarding him with a questioning look.

"What the hell was that for?"

"You see any tie-fighters around here, music man?" Sergeant Major Edward Mullins growled in annoyance. The young Italian in his midst may have thought his incessant humming was helping break the pre-battle tension, but it really wasn't. Not as far as he was concerned.

"_Hey, John Williams!"_ A voice suddenly crackled over the radio. _"If you and Chewbacca are done making out up there, could you maybe favor us with a status report?"_

"Uh… (cough)… roger that, Dogcatcher. Top Dog Delta… All clear up here."

_"Copy. How about you, Watchdog?"_

"_Watchdog One. Tracking three. Group one… rock… zero-eight-six… twelve ships… twenty-four thousand… cap… hostile. Group two… rock… one-zero-five… ten ships… stacked ten to eighteen thousand… hostile. Group three… rock… bearing one-five-five… sixteen… three thousand feet… hostile. Range… one-four-zero. Watchdog out."_

_"Copy three, Watchdog. Track steady."_

The non-sequitur conversation fell on deaf ears as Rose made her way hastily back to the First-Class Lounge. A series of small boxes had been mounted on bulkheads throughout the ship, and were now blurting out a strange, multi-part conversation that she could only assume was somehow related to their current circumstances. Honestly, the gibberish being broadcast through the corridors and across the decks could have very well been a foreign language as far as she was concerned. But her concerns dwelt elsewhere at the moment, and it was to that location that she currently found herself headed.

Pushing past startled passengers along the promenade, she burst through the door into aft grand stairway and accelerated into a near sprint. Grabbing a column with one hand, she swung herself around the port side like an enthusiastic five-year-old coming down the stairs on Christmas morning and dashed into the lounge, nearly knocking a bewildered John Ismay to the floor in the process.

The lounge was much as she had left it, with a few notable exceptions. Every chair around the cluster of tables was now filled by a variety of men, all of who sat hunched over strange and glowing machines with their fingers typing madly away. Windows had been covered with sheets to give the room a dark, cave-like feel, and the large sheet over the fireplace was now magically alive with a strange projection of multi-colored shapes and symbols. Throughout the room, a heavy pal of intensity hung like an oppressive fog, silently conveying the serious nature of their situation.

"_Bulldog flight… Intercept course, bearing one-one-zero… Merge, eight-zero miles… Weapons green."_ The box on the wall barked out again, although she paid it little attention. There was something that intrigued her about the strange and flickering images on the makeshift screen, holding her spellbound as she furiously tried to make sense of it all. The objects on display were clearly in motion, much like the projected images one could see in one of the new nickelodeon shows, and their appearance and movements seemed to be representative of something else: Of real-world events, only now occurring.

And as she thought deeper about this mysterious light show, she began to understand it as a sort of distilled version of reality… as a means of taking broad events beyond normal comprehension and pairing them down into a form that could be easily read, understood and acted upon with proper haste.

And that epiphany, in turn, set her mind to other possibilities… To other potential uses for such an advanced technology.

"Excuse me, sir?" she said, approaching the tables and tapping the uniformed shoulder of a person who sat hunched intently over one of the machines.

"Yeah mister?" the owner of the shoulder responded, turning around in their chair to reveal a decidedly feminine face.

For Rose, the shock for finding a woman in such a uniform was complete.

"Y… yo… you're a soldier?" she gawked in disbelief.

"A _marine,_ ma'am." The young, short-haired woman stated with a hint of annoyance in her voice. "How can I help you?"

"Uh… I… ah… was wondering if it was possible to… change the image on your moving picture screen?" Rose managed to say after regaining her voice.

"You mean the heads-up display? Sure, that's easy." The uniformed woman replied, turning back to her machine.

"Wonderful!" Rose exclaimed. "Then is there a way to see what Jack is seeing right now?"

"Who?" the woman inquired, not diverting her attention from the device in front of her.

_"Visual contact! Tracking west-by-northwest, twelve miles! Turning hot!"_

"Dawson! Lieutenant Jack Dawson!" Rose clarified, ignoring the incessant electronic chatter. "He's one of your pilots!"

"Ma'am, I'm not on a first-name basis with all of our personnel." The woman grunted with growing annoyance. "And even if I _did_ know who you were talking about, I can't do anything without authorization from a superior…"

"Warrant Officer Evans?"

"Yes sir?"

"Throw Badger's dash cam up on the jumbo." Braxton instructed his subordinate. He may not have had all the details regarding this brewing dispute, but he knew both marines and redheads, and he was intimately familiar with how small skirmishes could quickly escalate into full-scale wars. And he knew he needed to defuse this particular grenade then and there.

The makeshift screen went dark as Evans carried out her orders, typing a series of commands into her machine at breakneck pace. A moment later it sprung back to life, this time illuminating the shaded room with the brilliant and airy image of a series of shifting shapes and lines, drawn out in an iridescent shade of green.

But for Rose, it was the view beyond those shapes that held her transfixed. Behind the minimalist gaggle of geometric forms was the ethereal image of an azure blue sky blending seamlessly into a cobalt blue sea. The subtle, shifting shades made the line of the horizon all but invisible amongst a gossamer thin veil of wispy clouds that fell just below one's line of sight. It was the view of the world… of _her_ world… as seen from far above. She didn't know how far up Jack was at that moment, but she knew he was flying higher than any human being of her time had ever flown, seeing the earth in a way than none had ever seen it before, and would likely not see again for many decades to come.

"_Bandits, inbound! Two at ten, two at twelve!"_ the disembodied voices called out again, although Rose would never claim to have heard them. _"Look alive! Look alive! We've got two comin' 'round the left side! Watch the flanks!"_

"_I see 'em! Moving to engage!"_

"_Right with ya, eight-ball! Rolling in! Weapons hot!"_

_"Five o'clock! Slightly high! Range, one mile! Bandit on you!"_

_"Got your six! Stay with him now!"_

_"Breaker! Breaker! One commin' up the middle! Passing between us!"_

_"Check right! Check right!"  
_

_"I'm going after him! Rolling right! Watch my back!"_

But none of the excitement was reflected on the screen. The projection of Jack's view remained unchanged upon the wall, larger than life and in living color. Tranquil… Peaceful… Serene… As her green eyes stood mesmerized, Rose silently surmised that perhaps this was the view God had enjoyed at the moment of creation, looking down upon a pristine void of color and light.

_"Heads up, Boxer Flight! You got one comin' your way! Saber, bearing zero-nine-five! Five hundred knots at angels two!"_

_"Roger that. We got 'em."_

The sound of Jack's voice was enough to snap Rose out of her own thoughts. She refocused her eyes on the details of the image, and amidst the infinite hues of blue, glimpsed a momentary glint of metal.

"_Visual contact with target."_ Jack called out over the airwaves. _"We'll let him pass underneath and pull a spilt-S. You with me, Tommy-boy?"_

_"Lead the way, Jackie! I've got your six!"_

For a moment longer, the scene remained unchanged. Then in the blink of an eye, the world flipped upside down. Sea replaced sky and vice versa as reality itself hung inverted for a heart-pounding instant. Then, just as quickly, the sky dropped away and the unfathomable depths of the ocean filled the screen, the distant glint of wave tops sparkling like sequins on an infinite tapestry of royal blue.

Downward Jack plunged at breathtaking speed, the bejeweled ocean surface continuing to rotate through its eye-watering circuit. Soon the form of another aircraft came into view, its swept wings and tail the very picture of speed. And a split second later, the horizon emerged once more, this time with heaven and earth restored to their rightful places within the cosmos.

Then everything plunged once again as both combatants dove toward the surface below, twisting and turning in a violent side-to-side motion that put one's mind to images of a coiled snake preparing to strike.

"_That's it, Jackie! Horizontal scissors now! Stay with him!"_ Tommy's voice called out.

"_I'm too close for missiles! Switching to guns!"_ Jack responded, just as the shapes on the screen reorganized themselves. Two seconds later, a burst of glowing-hot metal leapt forward into the field of view and sailed past the pursued craft on its right side, streaking out into the void before disappearing into the sea in a furious line of foamy geysers.

Responding to the sudden assault, the mystery craft turned left across Jack's line of sight and broke hard toward the surface, providing a momentary glimpse of two-tone gray paint with bold, black crosses emblazoned upon its wing tips. Jack's response was almost instantaneous as he followed the turn and continued the dive, the world dropping away to the right, forcing Rose to grasp her stomach as an uncomfortable feeling of queasiness rolled over her.

The sea was looming ever larger across the screen, and for a moment she feared that its shimmering surface would be the end of both of them. But then the horizon popped into view once again, and she found herself looking directly into the prow the ship she was even now standing on.

The sudden appearance of Titanic caused her to flinch involuntarily. From out of nowhere it filled the screen, its wedge-like bow staring directly into the frame, frothy folds of seawater surging at its base like a great black beast foaming at the mouth.

She watched intently as the gray craft rolled hard over and passed along the starboard side, barely fifty feet above the surface. Jack appeared ready to mirror the move along the port side, but in the flash of an instant he pulled up. Pitching his bird upward into a screaming climb, he barrel rolled to the left, passing directly over the ship in a graceful, looping arc, its polished decks and gleaming white superstructure filling the canopy above him. He was so low that he passed through the smoke plumes of the mighty funnels, and for a split second Rose could see directly down their cavernous reaches to glimpse the amber glow of the infernos that raged deep within the bowels of the ship.

The whole lounge shook as the two craft roared past, Jack passing almost directly overhead. Chandeliers clinked, windows rattled and mirrors wobbled, producing funhouse-like distortions as the room was filled with the overwhelming roll of thunder.

"_Eyes wide, Jackie! He's goin' vertical!"_ Tommy's shouted warning rang through the room as the cacophonous roar faded and the gray craft suddenly rocketed upward.

_"Then so are we!"_ Jack replied, shoving the throttle forward and burying the stick as far back as it would go. Thrust ports flared wide open as afterburners engaged, pouring raw fuel into his exhaust. Thirty thousand pounds of thrust responded in earnest, sending him surging toward the stratosphere in a dead-vertical climb.

"_Go get 'em, Jackie! Yeeeeeee- hah! We're goin' ballistic!"_ Tommy's enthusiastic cry rang out.

Faint traces of clouds now raced by at frightening speed as the two combatants climbed ever higher. Whipping through a series of aileron rolls in a high-speed game of cat and mouse, the heavens spun like a top in his windscreen: A stomach-turning display shared by those earth-based observers in the lounge. Elements of the heads-up display danced and twirled about so fast that they became but a lime green blur, indiscernible to even the most experienced pilot.

And then the world flipped 'round again as the Saber dove and Jack followed with an aggressive over-the-top maneuver that plunged him into another screaming vertical dive.

With the throttle wide open, even the extreme angle of his descent was not enough to overcome the forces of acceleration, and he felt himself being pushed back into his seat. Soon the air speed indicator was passing six hundred miles per hour, and his target began looming ever larger in the heads-up display. Seconds later, as the gossamer halo of a Prandtl-Glauert cloud materialized around him, he reached that singular and awe-inspiring point in the laws of physics that few Harrier pilots ever had the thrill of experiencing.

Rose's heart nearly stopped when the lounge unexpectedly shook with the rapport of an explosion. For a brief instant she assumed the worst, but was just as quickly comforted by the image on the screen that had remained unchanged through it all.

"Confirmed! We have Mach one!" one of the men at the tables mechanically stated.

"What does that mean?" Rose asked of no one in particular. "And what was that noise just then?"

"A sonic boom, ma'am." One of the uniformed men informed her. "It's what happens when an aircraft passes the speed of sound."

"The speed… of… _sound?"_ she stammered, slack-jawed and bewildered. As a person who thought the idea of trains traveling at a hundred miles per hour to be a terrifying concept, the knowledge that Jack, _her_ Jack, was up there tearing through the sky at a speed fast enough to outrun a thunderclap… Well, to say the proposition left her stunned would be like calling the Palace of Versailles "Louie's quaint little summer place in the suburbs."

"_That's it, Jackie! Close with him now!"_ Tommy's encouraging refrain rang through the room. _"Close the range and make the kill!"_

Side slipping to his right, Jack brought the piper of the bore site into alignment with his prey and waited for the range indicator to tick off the final clicks to a clean shot.

"_All right, you Luftwaffe wanna-be!"_ he spat into his mask as the indicator went green, _"Time to kiss the sun and taste the freakin' rainbow!"_

With a firm grip, he squeezed the trigger in his right hand. The GAU-12 growled in acquiescence, disgorging itself of ammunition to the tune of 2,500 rounds per minute as it belched forth a vicious tongue of smoke and flame. And like a swarm of demonic hornets, the torrent of white-hot steel lashed out through open space, striking home with overpowering force. The wing of the Saber disintegrated instantly beneath the onslaught, and the stricken craft pitched violently over before plunging nose first into the sea, disappearing in a swirling maelstrom of fire and smoke and steam and foam.

"_Boom, baby! Splash one!"_ Jack cried out over the airwaves, jubilation ringing through his voice. _"All you cats come out to play, put down your money I'll take it away!"_

"_So tell the world that we've got game, we'll kick your ass and take your name!"_ Tommy answered the lyrical refrain with equal enthusiasm.

With adrenaline surging through his veins, Jack pitched his bird's nose upward and pushed the stick over, sending the Harrier into a spinning victory roll.

For Rose, it was the final straw. Her constitution already weakened from a combination of nerves and the spinning, twisting images she had been watching, this final act of aerobatics was more than her gut could take. With a lurch of her stomach, she pressed a suppressive hand to her mouth and bolted from the room, racing down the corridor toward the grand stairs in a desperate quest for the cleansing, calming effect of fresh air.

Stumbling into the stairway atrium, she paused briefly to quell a sudden surge of nausea before turning and rushing for the door to the promenade deck. The sudden burst of salt air felt like heaven to her as the twisted the knob and nearly wrenched the door off its hinges. Apparently someone had left the storm door at the forward end of the promenade open, creating something of a wind tunnel effect as the stiff breeze whipped past the bay windows and porticos toward the open-air section to the rear. Turning to face the wind, she took several deep and cleansing breaths, relishing how with each and every lungful the boiling nausea within the pit of her stomach seemed to ebb a little further into the background of her consciousness.

But her relief was short lived however, as the familiar sensations of anxiety and worry were quick to come flooding back. Jack was still up there, _somewhere,_ and she didn't know how he was fairing.

Without thinking she began moving up the deck, running as fast as her heels would carry her toward the open door and the stairwell that lay beyond. Moments later she emerged from those same stairs onto Boat Deck between the bridge and lifeboat one, and was taken aback by what she saw.

Captain Smith's orders about staying clear of exposed areas had apparently fallen on deaf ears, as more than a dozen people could be seen mulling about the deck with their necks craned upward toward the heavens, watching with awe-inspired rapture the battle raging above. With her own eyes to the sky she began making her way aft past the officers' quarters, the rumble of distant thunder filling the air around her as the great birds of prey twisted and turned across the horizon in a delicate dance of death. Passing lifeboat seven, she paused briefly by the entrance to the gymnasium before stepping timidly up to the solid bulwark of the rail, staring out at the soaring machines that appeared as little more than flecks of metal against the immensity of the sky. The threat they all faced seemed so distant from that perspective, and yet still so close at hand.

"_Two bearing in straight! Taking 'em down the left side!"_ the incessant chatterbox on the bulkhead continued to squawk, although she continued to pay it little if any attention. _"Another one comin' around the right side!" _

"_Somebody close the back door! There's a draft in here!"_

"_On 'em! Sweeping 'round the right flank!"_

_"I've got tone! Firing, fox three!"_

"Penny for yer thoughts, darlin'?"

Startled by the intrusion, Rose whipped herself around to face the warm and welcoming visage of Molly Brown.

"Oh, hi Maggie." She greeted with a grin, lightly clutching her heart. "I was just… watching… the… uh…" She looked away sheepishly, casting her eyes back to the sky, not knowing how to describe the feelings that were coursing through her.

Molly simply smiled and shrugged in her uniquely endearing way.

"Don't worry yourself too much, sweetheart." She reassured. "Ah reckon there ain't nobody on this tin tub right now who knows quite what to make of all this."

Rose couldn't help but smile back at the nouveau riche socialite's folksy and down-to-earth manner. There was a warm and genuine way about the Colorado silver baron's wife that made her feel instantly comfortable: Something eerily similar how Jack's worldly ways also inspired such feelings within her. She supposed that the two of them were, in a sense, kindred spirits: Separated by social class and half a continent, but still two peas in a pod nonetheless.

"Shouldn't you be inside where it's safe?" Rose playfully asked the broadly grinning brunette.

"Shouldn't _you?"_ Molly smiled right back. "Besides, I've been in tighter tussles than this in my day, I'll tell you what. So I'll be a heifer's hind-quarters if I'm gonna let some little spot of danger keep me from seeing the fight of the flippin' century."

"Well neither am I." Rose resolutely concurred. "I don't care what anyone says. I'm going to stay up here and watch for Jack, and that's simply the way things are."

"Atta girl! You tell those prissy pinheads what's what!" Molly encouraged. "And for what it's worth, that's quite a guy you've landed yourself there."

Rose turned to Molly with a mixture of surprise and gratitude shining in her eyes. To hear someone of similar social station actually _approving_ of her budding relationship with the young artist from bellow decks… Well, after days of incessant harping and belittling insults from her mother, Cal and Lovejoy, it was beyond refreshing to finally find some positive encouragement from within her own peer group.

"Thank you, Maggie." She smiled gratefully. "Both for your words, and for everything you've done."

"Don't mention it, darlin'." Molly grinned, placing a comforting hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "Just be sure to keep that boy firmly planted on the ground once he gets back, you hear me?"

"I will." Rose smiled and nodded before looking around with a slight air of confusion. "And speaking of Jack, where exactly _is_ he?"

"Last ah saw of him, he had just knocked down that one varmint and was headed that-a-way," she said, thumbing over her shoulder to indicate the general direction of the port bow, "running up and away like a bat straight out of Hades. But don't you worry yerself none, hon. I'm sure that man of yours will be back before two shakes of lamb's tail."

It was at that moment, almost as if on cue, that Jack and his plane came screaming past at masthead level. Banking left across the bow with Tommy following right behind, he roared past with enough force to make the foremast sway and set the parallel wires of the radio aerial to singing. The lookouts in the crow's nest instinctively ducked beneath the ferocity of the fly-by, and the hat was whipped from Molly's head as the pair of craft streaked by at eye level for the two women, passing so close that Rose swore if she had merely reached out a hand, she could have touched the gleaming machines as they sped past.

"Aw, damn that mischievous little scamp!" Molly hissed as she dashed across the deck in pursuit of her feathered chapeau. It was all Rose could do not to burst out laughing at her friend's predicament, or her lover's aerial antics. There was something about Jack and Maggie that just seemed to click, and silently she hoped that someday Jack and herself could find a way to mesh in a similar fashion.

* * *

Meanwhile, two hundred feet away and tucked snugly within the cramped confines of the bridge, the mood was decidedly less jovial. Captain Smith frowned as he regarded the normally crowded space, which was now even more crowded than usual.

There were the typical fixtures of the bridge: The helmsman standing behind the telemotor, both hands gripping the spindles of the wheel, and the five engine room telegraphs standing in rank, three to the port side of the helm and two to the starboard. First Officer Murdoch stood to his right, ready and awaiting any orders that his commander might offer, while the bank of telephones stood ready along the rear bulkhead in the event that longer-range commands became necessary.

And then there were the new additions…

Two fresh faces clad in camouflage and body armor stood intermingled amongst the more typical features, and between the wheel and the number four telegraph, a strange new device stood ready. Tall and skinny with a gray finish and an illuminated face, Smith had taken an immediate disliking to the contraption the moment it had been brought aboard his ship. It seemed entirely out of place amongst all the polished copper and bronze fixtures, and in his expert opinion its placement interfered with the efficient flow of operations. Yet to spite such feelings, he tolerated its presence. He understood it to be a tool that would assist in his command, even if he didn't understand exactly _how_ it accomplished this task.

Granted, one of the newcomers had attempted explaining its function to him: Something about "electronic echoes" or some other such nonsense, and a great deal of crazy talk about using radio signals to find distant objects. Pure gibberish, he considered it all. The idea of such devices ran contrary to everything he knew about seamanship, and was thoroughly lacking in both substance and any notion of chivalry. Replacing good, well-experienced men of the sea with machines? Utter madness, it was!

"Electronic lookouts indeed." he sniffed indignantly, leaning conspiratorially toward First Officer Murdoch. "What next? Bombs that fly themselves?"

"They're called cruise missiles, and yeah... We've got those too." one of the camouflage-clad men casually grinned, not removing his eyes from the horizon beyond the row of square windows. "From where we're standing right now, a guy could launch one of them suckers from Nova Scotia and fly it right through your state room window! Parcel post... special delivery!"

Smith and Murdoch silently regarded each other with wide eyes, each begging the question of how world-altering such magical madness could be.

"Contact! Inbound bogey, bearing two-eight-three degrees. Fifty feet up. Range, five nautical miles and closing fast." The man standing before the unfamiliar machine, identified by his stitched name tag simply as "Sandoval", said as he stared intently into the flickering glow of the device.

"All units copy." His companion declared, gently fingering the small, insect-like device that sat perched just inside of his right ear. "Possible hostile approaching from west-by-northwest. Five miles out."

"_Got it!"_ the familiar voice of Colonel Braxton barked out across the heavy air of the bridge. _"Badger? Joker? You boy's wanna take this one?"_

"_On it, chief! Boxer flight responding!"_ an equally familiar voice replied, although Smith found himself unable to place exactly who it belonged to. _"Tommy, let's go say 'hi' to the new neighbors."_

_"My mother always DID tell me to be neighborly. Lead the way, mon capitan!"_

Banking to the left, both aircraft were soon barreling in on the unwelcome visitor, which rather quickly came into view.

_"Visual contact! Confirm, Tornado, turning to approach. Permission to engage?"_

_"Granted. Boxer One, you are clear to fire."_

_"Roger that. Maneuvering for the shot."_

With Tommy right on his tail, Jack dipped his nose and banked into a diving left-hand turn. At almost the same instant, the low-flying bomber turned left as well, drawing a bead directly onto Titanic's starboard bow and dropping even lower until its off-white belly was nearly skimming the wave tops.

"_Bay doors are open!"_ Tommy called out as he dropped underneath Jack and slipped to the outside. _"He's lining up a shot!"_

"_Acknowledged. Pickling sparrows."_ Jack replied as he put his own bird into a side-slip maneuver, bringing the ring of the bore site directly over the rushing bomber and relishing the sound of the electronic tone ringing through his headset, confirming that he had a lock. _"Here's the payoff pitch! Fox one!"_

With a flash of rocket wash, the Sparrow was away, streaking out through thin air and plunging down toward the lumbering bomber below. Flying itself down the Harrier's invisible radar beam, it wobbled slightly before making a final correction and embedding itself into the fuselage, a few feet behind the wings.

Three milliseconds later, its sixty-five pound warhead detonated, tearing the bomber cleanly in two and sending both halves plunging into the sea… just a split second after an ominous splash could be seen beneath its aluminum underside.

"Torpedo in the water!" the lookout on the starboard wing bridge cried out in warning. "Two o'clock at eight hundred yards!"

"Hard to starboard, Mister Perkis." Smith's order came as calm and cool as if he had faced such dangers every day of his life. "Engine two, full stop. Engine three, astern full."

"Aye, Captain!" the replies rang out, intermixed with the staccato ringing of the telegraphs being set and the squeak of the mahogany wheel being spun upon the bronze pedestal of the telemotor.

"Hard over, sir." Quartermaster Walter Perkis finally responded when spindles in his hands bumped abruptly to a stop.

Beneath his snow-white beard, Smith smiled slightly to spite the circumstances. These men of the future could boast of their fancy equipment and high-tech toys, but there would never be any worthy substitute for either sound seamanship or an experienced leader. Standing at the end of a long and distinguished career, he had been at sea for nearly his entire adult life, and during that time he had acquired knowledge and skills that could never be programmed into a mere machine. He knew how to handle his vessel, and he knew the sea. He didn't need some glorified adding machine to tell him how to manage his command.

"What is it with the starboard bow on this thing, anyway?" the one known as Sandoval muttered beneath his breath as the bow of the great ship began slowly swinging to the right. "Did the boys in Belfast paint a giant bull's eye on the hull or something?"

Smith ignored the cutting remark completely as he watched the unfolding scene before him. He had done what he could. Now it was up to the laws of physics and the grace of God to determine what the next move would be.

"Four hundred yards! Tracking hot, straight and true!" the call came from the wing bridge once more as the bow continued to swing lazily through its wide and cumbersome arc. Straight ahead, a faint trail of bubbles marked the path of the incoming projectile as it rapidly closed with its intended target.

"Two hundred yards!" came the frantic cry from the wing bridge. "This is gonna be close!"

"All hands, brace for impact!" Smith shouted, showing his first sign of emotion since the ordeal had begun.

Everyone within earshot quickly complied, grabbing hold of any solid object they could reach as the cacophony of activity that had dominated the bridge died in an instant. A tense silence hung thick in the air as all eyes turned forward, peering through the square panes of the wind screen to the sea beyond, tracking the tell-tale trail of milky froth as it approached closer and closer. Agonizing seconds ticked by as the bow continued its broad turn away from danger's path, the distance between the great ship and its doom shrinking ever smaller until finally the foamy trail flickered behind the bow rail and disappeared below the line of the forecastle deck …

And a dozen people held their collective breaths.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Awwwww _man!_ Another cliffie! Ain't I just the biggest stinker you ever saw? (Insert evil laugh here.)

And now, having said that, allow me to apologize for this latest chapter being so short. As a general rule, I try to break my chapters somewhere in the range of fifteen to twenty pages. (Assuming Microsoft Word with ten-point font and standard margin settings.) But the flow of a story doesn't always allow for such uniformity, and in this case the choice was either to break it here, break it later and be left with a cumbersome thirty-page chapter, or impose the break at an unnatural point and end up with a whole heap of extreme awkwardness. I chose the former.

And now, because military types speak their own language that one can only assume derives from English…

_Fox Codes:_ When engaging an enemy in air-to-air combat with missiles, NATO pilots use something known as "fox codes" to identify the type of weapon being deployed. A call of "fox one" indicates that a semi-active radar homing missile has been launched. These weapons include early AMRAAMs such as the AIM-7 Sparrow. "Fox two" signifies the launch of a heat-seeking missile such as the AIM-9 Sidewinder. These are shorter-ranged weapons when compared to AMRAAMs and are typically used only when a target is within visual range of the attacking aircraft. "Fox three" is used to signal that an active radar-homing missile has been deployed. These missiles are true "fire-and-forget" weapons, capable of tracking and striking a targeted aircraft without any outside input from the moment of launch forward. Members of this family include the AIM-54 Phoenix and the AIM-120 Slammer.

A call of "fox four" indicates that a weapon of unknown designation has just been launched. Such occurrences, although rare, seldom result in positive outcomes.

_Split-S:_ The split-S is a maneuver as old as combat aviation itself. Designed as a method for reversing one's direction without losing speed, it begins with a pilot rolling his plane 180-degrees onto its back. Then, the pilot pulls back on the control yoke and dives, gradually passing the vertical until the aircraft is once again level, now at a lower altitude and facing the opposite direction. It's a move that when diagrammed out in profile, resembles the bottom half of the letter "S": A "split-S."

It's a useful move to have at one's disposal, as the aspect of turning is a point of perpetual complication within the realm of the dogfight. For Newton's First Law of Motion unequivocally states that inertia works in straight lines. Translation: Turning costs you speed. And the dogfight is nothing if not a delicate balance between maneuverability (turning) and momentum (speed).

So by diving as you turn in this way, the speed you gain from the dive serves to compensate for the speed you lose in the turn, and the net result is a complete U-turn with nothing sacrificed…

Provided that you don't try pulling it off at low altitude, dummy!

_Horizontal Scissors:_ Another tactical maneuver dating to the First World War, the horizontal scissors is based roughly upon the same principals as the split-S, but with Newton's First Law being applied in reverse. The idea is to use the inertia-bleeding aspect of the turn to sacrifice speed quickly, and get into position behind one's adversary.

The maneuver starts out with both aircraft flying roughly side-by-side. Then, each participant turns inward, cutting across the other's path. This pattern is repeated with both aircraft flying through a series of lazy zig-zags, each turn bleeding off a little more speed, until one finally drops behind the other. At this point, it's simply a matter of sliding in behind the lead aircraft, lining up the shot, and blasting the motherf&%ker out of the sky.

Simple… until you actually try it.

_Prandtl-Glauert Cloud:_ An atmospheric phenomenon that occurs when an aircraft approaches Mach One under humid conditions. In such circumstances, the shockwave created by trans-sonic speed effectively shoves air away from the aircraft's path at an accelerated rate. This creates a narrow zone of low pressure immediately behind the wave, resulting in a partial vacuum within which airborne moisture can condense, creating a distinctive ring-shaped cloud around the airframe.

All in all, its actually a rather impressive visual display. When you have a chance, run a Google Images search for "Prandlt-Glauert Singularity" and prepare to have your mind blown!

_Walter Perkis:_ Walter John Perkis was one of seven quartermasters assigned to the R.M.S. Titanic for her maiden voyage. Thirty-eight years old at the time of the sinking, he was below decks in his bunk at the time of the collision, and later claimed to have felt nothing of the fateful impact. It wasn't until several minutes later that a joiner came past and informed him that he'd better turn out that he got dressed and made his way on deck.

Starting at midnight, Perkis relieved his fellow quartermaster Robert Hitchens at the ship's helm, but was soon pressed into assisting Second Officer Charles Lightoller with the launching of lifeboats on the port side. Eventually, he was assigned to Lifeboat # 4 as an oarsman, and thereby survived the disaster.

Following the inquiry in New York, Perkis returned to his native Southampton where he resided for the remainder of his life. He died at Southampton General Hospital on August 4th of 1954. He was 79 years old.

_Telegraphs and Telemotors:_ You might want to get comfy for this, folks: It's gonna be a long one.

Contrary to popular nomenclature, the engine controls seen in many photographs of the Titanic's bridge were not throttles. In the technical sense, a true throttle utilizes a direct connection, be it mechanical, electrical or hydraulic, to the engine mechanism in order to affect power output levels. The devices used on the Titanic possessed no such direct connection, but rather simply conveyed desired changes in engine status to the engine rooms. There, members of the crew would make the desired adjustments and send a reply message back to the bridge, confirming that the changes had been made.

In order to do this, the circular body of the telegraph had two arrows: A large arrow, connected to the control lever, that pointed from the perimeter inward, and a smaller arrow that pointed from the center out. In between these two arrows, a panel of backlit glass displayed all of the various engine settings.

When sending an order to the engine room, the officer of the bridge would use the control lever to set the large arrow to the desired command. This action was transferred through a series of cables and pulleys to an identical telegraph device in the engine room, causing the small arrow on said device to mirror the larger arrow on the bridge. And once the order had been carried out, the same action would be executed in reverse, with the officer of the engine room moving his own control lever to the ordered setting, causing the small arrow on the bridge telegraph to match the larger arrow that had been previously set.

Now all of this seems simple enough, but it has nonetheless always raised a particular question in my mind…

You see, in all the photos I've ever seen of the bridge on Titanic, there are five telegraphs visible: Three to the left side of the wheel, and two to the right. Now, the three on the left I can understand. One telegraph for each engine room is pretty much a no-brainer. And furthermore, I can even understand the presence of the fourth. The Number Two engine, a low-pressure steam turbine that was unique to ships of the era, had its controls housed in a separate compartment from the engine itself, perhaps requiring crewmen to be present and informed in both locations.

But what about the fifth telegraph? It's clearly there, standing just inside the doorway leading to the starboard wing bridge. What possible purpose could it serve? It's a question I've so far been unable to answer.

All of which, of course, leads us to the subject of the telemotor.

As the only recognizable component of the bridge still present on the wreck, the bronze pedestal of Titanic's telemotor has stood as an iconic symbol of the tragedy since it was first photographed by Bob Ballard in 1985. But what exactly _is_ a "telemotor," and how does it work? Legitimate questions indeed, deserving equally legitimate answers.

You see, in designing large ships such as Titanic, the naval engineers at Harland & Wolff discovered that when it came to issues of steering and navigation, strictly mechanical systems were highly impractical if not impossible. Titanic's rudder alone weighed in at 101.25 tons. Moving such a massive object by means of straight mechanical advantage could only be achieved by one of two means: Either with a wheel nearly twenty feet in diameter and requiring six men to turn it, or by gearing the linkages down so far that turning the rudder hard over would take nearly an hour. Neither of these options seemed very appealing.

And so the engineers went back to their drawing boards to concoct a hybrid system of sorts, utilizing both mechanical and hydraulic components in its design. In this system, the wheel would turn a pinion gear that was housed directly inside the pedestal. This gear in turn forced a pair of hydraulic rams either up or down depending on the direction of rotation, altering the pressure in a series of hydraulic pipes running from the bridge back to the steering engines at the very rear of the ship.

Everybody clear so far?

Me neither.

But any-who, this is the point where things _really_ get complicated, because the hydraulic inputs operated a series of sympathetic valves that regulated steam flow into a pair of massive four-cylinder reciprocating steam engines, similar in design to the Numbers One and Three engines that drove Titanic's outboard propellers. These steering engines turned crankshafts connected to bevel gears, and one of them, (the other would be held in reserve as a back-up), used said gear to turn a quadrant-style rack gear that was connected directly to the rudder post itself. As the gear spun, the rack laterally rotated to one side or the other, and the rudder turned along with it.

All in all it was a complicated set-up that would have made the likes of Rube Goldberg proud, but it accomplished the task at hand, and as history would ultimately prove, was surprisingly reliable to boot.

And it would also give to us one of the most enduring elements of maritime vernacular: A term that even today is still a widely used part of popular slang.

For nothing on a ship of the Titanic's size was small, and that included the steering engines. These massive pieces of machinery took up a great deal of space, and as such were difficult to conceal: Especially back in the aft compartments where the hull narrowed and space came at a premium.

So in order to mount these vital components of the ship's functionality, certain accommodations had to be made. Namely, a large casemate was installed directly above the steering engine compartment to provide both ventilation and adequate overhead clearance. This vertical shaft extended upward through the third-class common room to a glass skylight mounted in the poop deck, ahead of the docking bridge and between the aft cargo cranes. This allowed passengers on deck to look down and see the machinery of the ship in operation: The only such place on Titanic where such viewing by the public was possible.

And it's the reason that even today, we still refer to third-class accommodations aboard ship as "steerage class."

As for Smith's commands to the helm, there's a method to his madness. (Or a madness to his method… Take your pick.)

The act of reversing one engine while keeping the other wide open is an old mariner's trick for increasing the strength of one's turn. For by opposing one propeller against the other, you set up a sort of "push-pull" effect where the prop thrust shoves one side forward and the other is retracted back. The end result of this opposition is something of a rotational effect across the overall length of the hull.

All of which leaves the obvious question of Engine Number Two: Something of a special case… far different from its two outboard companions.

For you see, engines one and three were typical power plants for a large ship of the era. Triple-expansion reciprocating steam engines, they used their steam three times by cycling it through a series of pistons arranged for high, medium and low pressure. These can be easily identified by size in period photographs, with the smallest cylinder containing the high-pressure piston and the largest being for low pressure. (This is due to the basic principal that any expansive gas derives its power from a combination of pressure and volume. Therefore, as the steam in a system begins to lose pressure, a skilled engineer can compensate by increasing the volume of the cylinder.) With each of these engines being the size of a four-story building, their banks of pistons drove a pair of massive crankshafts with the force of 50,000 horsepower, in turn spinning the equally massive outboard propellers: A pair of 23.5-foot three-bladed screws set to either side of the rudder.

However, as eco-friendly as the concept of recycling steam might be, the engineers at Harland & Wolff weren't done yet. Upon being exhausted from the low-pressure cylinders, the steam from both reciprocating engines was routed to a Parsons low-pressure turbine that drove the central screw: A smaller cousin to its outboard neighbors with only a sixteen-and-a-half foot diameter, but boasting four blades, and a serious problem.

For like all turbines, Engine Number Two had no reverse settings. Reversing the direction of the turbine meant reversing the directional flow of the steam: A tedious and time-consuming proposition that was hard on equipment and men alike, and resulted in greatly reduced efficiency.

And so in an act of total resignation to the gods of logistics, the engineers elected to eliminate the reversing issue entirely and make the turbine a sort of high-speed booster engine, capable of forward propulsion only. It seemed a worthwhile trade-off, as the lack of such capability would only be an issue in rare circumstances when emergency evasive maneuvers would be necessary…

Say… an iceberg suddenly jumping out in front of you in the dark.

Now regarding the addition to the bridge fixtures that caused Captain Smith so much consternation in this story, I tried dropping as many hints as I could without coming right out and saying what this mystery machine was. But for those of you who simply don't do subtlety, the "electronic lookout" that had him so twisted up was a radio direction and ranging system, or to use the acronym by which it's more commonly known, a RADAR system.

Of course today, we think of radar as an absolute necessity on any ocean-going vessel. But for people of the Edwardian era, who were just getting used to the idea of this weird thing called "atmospheric radiation" that was supposedly all around them in an unseen state, the idea of using such a mysterious and invisible force to pinpoint the location of objects beyond the horizon would have seemed something akin to black magic: Fodder for of science fiction novelists and insane visionaries whose minds severed all ties with reality many years before.

And within this simple fact lies a powerful lesson. For as renowned science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke once noted, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." And when using this sentiment as a lens through which to view history, it quickly becomes overwhelming to contemplate just how far we've come in such a short period of time.

God only knows where the next century will take us.

And so, my fellow time travelers, we end yet another installment in out little tale of temporal adventure. As usual, leaving a review nets you a reply, so be sure to take advantage of this not-so-limited time offer.

Catch you all on the flip side!

_Nutzkie…_


	6. Falling Down

**Usual Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

Alright! We all know the drill, so there's no need to go into a great deal of detail here. After all, disclaimers such as this are the literary equivalent of a speed bump at the end of your driveway. So let's just get through this quick and clean, and then move on to the reason that we're all _really_ here.

_Titanic_ is the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox, and about a half-dozen or so other production studios who managed to snag a piece of that action back in the late nineties. I personally don't own squat, so if you're ticked off and looking to sue, good luck, 'cause you can't get blood from a turnip. I hope you hire an expensive lawyer and run up a _huge_ legal bill, dip wad! (Gawd, being broke can be so liberating!)

Beyond that, anything not found in the movie or on the ocean floor could be construed as mine, I suppose. Although I'm sure there's some legal-eagle out there somewhere who would relish the opportunity to argue otherwise.

In short, the movie belongs to Jimmy Cameron, the profits belong to the studios, the Titanic belongs to the ages, this software belongs to Bill Gates, my kidneys belong to my bookie, and all your base belong to us!

Onward and upward…

* * *

**~ Chapter Six ~**

_**Falling Down**_

A dozen souls held their breath in anticipation as the trail of bubbles disappeared below the line of the bow. In anticipation of what, they did not know. Deliverance? Absolution? Their end? Perhaps nothing at all? The oppressive silence that hung heavy throughout the bridge offered no answers. Interminable seconds ticked by as time itself seemed to stand still in their midst. Their moment of judgment was at hand.

The silence was shattered by the ringing of a telephone, causing every man present to jump, whether he would later admit to it or not. Murdoch was quick to respond, racing to the rear bulkhead and silencing the piercing sound as he swung the speaker horns up to his ears and pressed his lips into the mouthpiece that extended from the finely-varnished talking box.

"Bridge!" he confirmed without fanfare, pausing for only a few seconds as he listened intently to the voice in his ears.

"Right!" he replied just as quick, dropping the earpieces against the bulkhead and turning to address the assembled.

"Crow's nest reports a negative impact, Captain." He succinctly informed his superior. "A shot across our bow, but no strike… no detonation."

And twelve people released a breath that they had been unaware of holding.

* * *

Meanwhile, a certain young redhead's attention remained firmly affixed on the sky. With her eyes locked on Jack's soaring form, the lyrics of what she had come to regard as "their song" came filtering back to her in a musical refrain that echoed through her imagination.

"Come Josephine, in my flying machine… and it's up she goes… up she goes…"

It seemed a fitting metaphor for the type of flight she knew, invoking images of softly floating upon a gentle breeze… of taking to the air on a spindly machine of wood and wire… little more than a box kite with an engine.

It was an image that couldn't have been more different from what she was witnessing now. This _thing…_ this display of aerobatic intensity… was flight on an entirely different level than anything she had ever seen or heard of before. There was no gently floating on a gossamer breeze… no balancing one's self like a bird on a beam… This was something more akin to strapping a saddle to the back of a comet and blasting off for the heavens. It was flight on a scale that even the birds themselves could only dream of, and the possibilities for how far it could take mankind seemed almost limitless.

"_Yeeeeee-eahhhhh! That's the way we roll in MY neighborhood, bee-yotch!"_ Jack's melodic voice rang out across the deck. She could only assume that he had scored another kill, and the thought quickly brought a smile to her lightly powdered face.

_"Look alive, Badger! You've got one on your tail!"_

Now _that_ was something that sounded far more concerning to her.

And twelve thousand feet above her, Jack would have been quick to agree. Of course even without Tommy's shouted warning, the burst of tracers over his right wing would have gotten the point across quite clearly.

Shoving the stick to the right and kicking left rudder, he snap-rolled across the line of fire and dove for the deck. With all of its engine upgrades, a Super Harrier would have little trouble outrunning a Saber in this way, and once the range had been opened a bit, he'd have enough wiggle room to get around behind this pesky punk and show him why it wasn't polite to tailgate people in traffic.

So naturally his surprise was complete when he glanced over his shoulder and saw that his pursuer was still there, maintaining position as it matched his own dive point for point.

Then, he saw a possible explanation for the occurrence, and _that_ caused him even more concern.

_"Dogcatcher! Dogcatcher! Scratch Saber! Report, SUPER Saber on my tail! Repeat! Visual confirmation! F-one-hundred engaged!"_

"_Scratch that, Badger!"_ Tommy's familiar voice added. _"Make it TWO Super Sabers on your six!"_

_"Son of a… Alright! I'm headin' for the deck! Joker! Give these guys something else to think about, will ya?"_

_"On it!"_

_"I'm a-goin' with plan B!"_

_"You got one of those, buddy?"_

_"Not really, no!"_

Opening the throttle to full afterburner, he intensified the dive, his mind working feverishly on the faintest outline of a plan. Spinning to dodge another burst of cannon fire, he silently rued the previous night's order to steam south, as it left him without the one asset that he needed to make this work. But maybe… just maybe… he might still be able to find what he needed.

And that's when he saw it.

Out of the corner of his eye, almost invisible amongst the glimmer of the waves below, he saw the one thing he was so desperately looking for: His ticket to the land of salvation. And with a twist of the stick and a kick of the rudder, he drew a beeline directly toward it, maintaining the speed of the dive as he went.

The Super Saber had power; there was no doubt about that. So much power in fact, that he could never hope to outrun one. But he could still out-turn one, and by combining that reality with the natural resource he now found at his disposal, there was a definite chance of him pulling this thing out of his hat and living to fight another day. It was a daring move that he was about to attempt: Something that would take every bit of courage, cunning and skill that he could muster. But it was also his best hope for survival, and he was convinced he had what it would take to pull if off.

Side-slipping to avoid another round of tracer fire, he pegged the velocity vector on a point about one hundred yards in front of the iceberg's frosty base and straightened out his path. It was show time!

With a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure that his pursuers were still there, he reached out to the control panel and activated the forward VTOL thrusters. Almost instantly, a pair of butterfly doors popped open directly beneath him, and two rocket nozzles swung downward. Two seconds later, injectors began feeding a cocktail of hypergolic chemicals into a set of reinforced combustion chambers, and two white-hot jets of flame roared to life, shoving his nose upward with an intensity that threatened to tear the stout airframe apart and causing the tell-tale streaks of turbulence to trail back from his wingtips.

He gritted his teeth and strained to breathe as a force over nine times the strength of normal gravity washed over him like an ocean wave. It felt like he had a safe sitting in his lap as the turn intensified, leaving him fighting for consciousness even as he felt his lungs spontaneously inflating, the immense G-forces tugging downward at his diaphragm. It was a test of physical endurance the likes of which even most Olympic athletes would never experience, but it had the desired effect.

Pulling out of the dive with terrifying strength, the Harrier momentarily skimmed the tops of the waves, tossing up a frothy rooster tail before raising its nose and ascending skyward again, narrowly missing the jagged peak of the berg.

The first Super Saber in line wasn't nearly so lucky. Suckered into the chase and having foolishly tried to match the Harrier's every move, its superior speed became its undoing. With its tremendous momentum outstripping its ability to turn, the F-100 brushed the crest of a wave and momentarily wobbled before slamming headlong into the looming wall of ice. Barely slowed by the epic intensity of the impact, its sleek, stovepipe-like form instantly disintegrated into a fireball that leapt heavenward, bouncing off the frozen slope of the berg's face like a launching ramp before roiling upward in the shape of a mushroom while heavier pieces of debris arced gracefully through the sky in a ballistic trajectory, eventually splashing down gently into the shimmering sea.

_"Splash three!"_ he called out.

_"I think you're supposed to shoot at them Jackie,"_ Tommy pointed out in his typically sarcastic way, _"not throw ice cubes at them."_

_"So noted! Now would you mind giving me a hand with this other one? I don't think he particularly likes me!"_

_"On my way!"_

_"Sooner would be better!"_

_"Almost there, Badger. Although this guy MIGHT want to turn his head and cough in a sec."_

_"Would you just take the flippin' shot already?"_

_"Alright! Alright! Have some patience, sonny boy! You'll need to break left on my signal. Think you can do that?"_

_"I can do whatever I need to do! Just say when!"_

_"Okay! In three… two… one… BREAK!"_

With a flick of the stick and a kick of the rudder, Jack immediately sent his bird into an eye-watering left-hand turn, enticing the Super Saber to follow. The anonymous enemy pilot did not disappoint in this regard, matching Jack's turn G for G, never seeing the second Harrier dropping in on his tail.

_"Okay punk, you wanna swim in the time stream?"_ Tommy sneered beneath his mask, _"Well then get ready, 'cause here comes the RIPTIDE! Fox two!"_

With terrifying speed, the Sidewinder lashed out across the open sky. Homing in on the blowtorch-like exhaust of the Super Saber, it drove a line straight down the pipe and detonated its 20-pound warhead inside. The resulting explosion tore the jet completely in two, cleanly severing the tail from the fuselage. Suddenly deprived of more than a third of its structure, the supersonic fighter yawed violently into a flat spin and dropped into the sea, skipping three times before finally coming to rest and beginning its slow, two-and-a-half mile descent to the bottom.

_"Wow! A triple hopper! Not bad."_ Jack remarked, glancing over his shoulder as he released his turn and began a gentle ascent.

_"S'all in the wrist, my friend. S'all in the wrist."_ Came the casual and slightly prideful reply. _"Oh, and you're welcome, by the way."_

_"Save the self-congratulations for later; you've got your own issues to worry about! Bandit on you! Five o'clock high!_

_"My! Aren't I the popular one?"_

_"Just hold tight, buddy! I'm coming 'round for the shot!"_

_"Don't bother. I've got this covered."_

Twisting in his harness, Tommy looked over his right shoulder and quickly picked up the attacking Saber among the faint scattering of clouds. A few, quick mental calculations followed, and he shifted in his ejection seat as he silently counted down to the moment that he would make his move.

That moment came just as the Saber came into cannon range. With a hard kick to the rudder he planted the stick into the back right corner of the cockpit, throwing the Harrier into a climbing right-hand turn and soaring directly across the Saber's path. A glowing burst of tracers missed their mark by a wide margin as he raced through the firing line at breakneck speed, even as the forces of the climb and the turn both conspired to rob him of precious airspeed.

…Exactly as he wanted it to.

_"That's the thing when you dance with the devil…" he cryptically grinned behind his mask._

With it's speed augmented by the strength of its dive, the Saber quickly overshot its target, roaring past Tommy low and on his left side. A quick reversal of the rudder and stick, and he barrel-rolled right, dropping directly onto his adversary's tail. In the blink of an eye, the tables had been turned.

_"You wind up getting burned!"_ he completed his previous statement. _"Fox two!"_

The Sidewinder lashed out across open space, bearing in on its target with remorseless tenacity. Having seen his predicament, the enemy pilot attempted to pull up and turn away from the danger zone, but only succeeded in signing his own death warrant. With its seeker head locked firmly onto the Saber's thermal signature, the Sidewinder flew itself directly into the cockpit and detonated on impact. The entire forward fuselage disappeared in a fountain of fire and debris, and the remaining structure flipped over before spinning violently downward into an angry sea.

_"Okay. Now you're just showing off."_ Jack groused over the open com link.

_"Hey! Love me, love my awesomeness!"_ Tommy smiled and shrugged.

Forming up wingtip to wingtip, the two great birds of prey completed another turn and began climbing back into the roiling fur ball above them once more.

* * *

_"Bandits moving in from the east… two groups! Talk to us, Watchdog!"_

_"Watchdog one, scanning three groups. Group one… bearing zero-niner-zero… altitude, eighty-six hundred… range, four miles… hostile. Group two… bearing one-zero-niner… altitude, eight thousand… range, three point five miles… hostile. Group three… bearing two-five-five… altitude, eighty-two hundred… range, three miles… hostile."_

_"They're pressing in from the flanks!"_

_"Dogcatcher one to all units. Fall back to perimeter points Alfa-Zulu and regroup. Close the gaps and hold 'em, boys!"_

Rose didn't have to have an advanced degree in technical jargon to understand what all of that mumbo-jumbo meant. The fact that distant metal specks suddenly began to approach much closer provided all the context she needed. Retreating inward to form a smaller encirclement of the ship, their airborne protectors could tighten the ranks, effectively giving them less air to cover and forming a stouter defense.

And the results seemed to be immediate as she quickly looked up to find a stricken aircraft plunging downward into the sea, trailing a comet's tail of smoke and flame in its wake. And in another direction, a second craft pin wheeled slowly downward like a falling leaf, one of its wings clearly in absence.

She had known the details of the situation since it's beginning. She knew that there were men up there dying… dying both to threaten them and protect to them. But now that she could see that death in greater detail, the spectacle of it all could do nothing but overwhelm her. There was perhaps no greater spectacle in all of creation… this great and gruesome display of men killing one another: A morbid and masterful act of pageantry, played out across a stage of crystal blue sky.

Slowly… aimlessly… she began making her way aft along the boat deck, eyes pressed firmly to the sky, her feet carrying her of their own volition. It was all so much to take in, the sights and sounds and head spinning motions… her whole world raging out of control. Collectively, it left her in a dream-like state. She was sleepwalking… and yet fully awake. It barely registered when several hundred yards beyond the rail, a bomber with one wing in flame bellied in, coming to rest partially submerged with its tail jutting above the ocean's surface at an exceptionally odd angle. A pair of Harriers screamed past overhead, filling the air with the roar of enraged demons, and still she did not respond. Behind her, another bomber exploded, shattering the very air as its high-explosive payload was detonated by a missile strike. The concussion rang through her sinuses like a punch to the face, pulling the air from her lungs and knocking the hat from her head. Still nothing. All around her was a maelstrom of chaos, swirling and churning with surrealist furry, and yet she remained oblivious to it all. Reality had become fantasy, and vice versa. Nothing was as it ever was… or should be.

Only when she neared the second-class stairs did the outside world finally register upon her consciousness. A sudden blast and a flash of light drew her attention to the roof of the stairwell where a rocket had just departed. It left a trail of acrid white smoke as it lashed out through thin air, streaking straight upward through the heavens before turning over ever so slightly to the south, bending its vapid tail toward yet another approaching threat. She was barely able to count off three seconds before the two objects met in mid-air, a flash of light and a puff of smoke marking the point of intersection.

She found herself oddly mesmerized by the geometry of it all. The missile, for all its intensity and speed, seemed to simply disappear in the collision, its feathery tail of vapor ending abruptly at the point where the two paths crossed. But the aircraft, on the other hand, possessed an inertia that survived its demise. With its tail fully engulfed and sputtering out a trail fiery spurts, it traced out a wide parabolic arc across the sky. Slowly rolling as it followed a ballistic trajectory, its rate of descent began to increase geometrically the closer to the sea it came. Closer… and closer still… Looming ever larger in the wide-open sky.

Green eyes grew wide as they tracked the plummeting menace through its earthward path, and that astonishment turned to horror as she recognized the meaning of it all… a split second before that horror hit home.

Plunging vertically at the end of its path, the stricken fighter slammed into the stern with terrifying force, sending a violent shudder rolling up the length of the ship. Its momentum barely slowed by the impact, the fuselage tore through the poop deck like an ice pick through cardboard, cleaving off its wings in the process. The doors of the third-class common room were blown off their hinges and sent careening across the aft well deck while burning fuel poured down stairwells into the depths of the ship. The jet engine, being the largest and most massive singular component of the craft, continued its path further still, crashing and tumbling its way through two more decks before bursting through the underside of the fan tail and splashing into the sea, missing the rudder and number three screw by mere feet.

_"Lookouts report! What the hell is going on back there?"_

_"Top Dog Foxtrot! Some jackass just went full-on-kamikaze and pulled a flaming gainer into the stern! Major damage! Repeat, MAJOR damage!"_

_"Are you boys all right?"_

_"Affirmative. Echo and I are fine, but the (cough) smoke is pretty… (cough) pretty heavy."_

_"Acknowledged. Pull back to a safe location if you can. Damage control teams are on their way."_

_"Copy that. We're withdrawing to the well deck. Will await further orders."_

But even as the dedicated lookouts descended from their posts on the docking bridge, the stern of the great ship was descending into utter chaos. Choking smoke billowed out thick and dark from open doorways along the back of the well deck, and seeped up from between the planks of the poop deck. Steerage passengers, some with their clothes and hair on fire, tumbled out into the open air and collapsed onto the deck. Those unfortunate souls who had been set upon by the inferno were quickly jumped upon by good Samaritans who beat out the flames with whatever means they had, while others were quickly helped to their feet and led away from the growing conflagration. All around, the crisp smell of salt air had been replaced by the acrid scent of kerosene vapor and the putrid stench of burning flesh. It was a holocaust scene: The once immaculate decks strewn with mangled wreckage and the bodies of the injured. The ship of dreams had become the ship of nightmares.

She couldn't turn her self away fast enough, she discovered. Even as rescue teams rushed forward with fire hoses and stretchers to assist the injured and fight the flames, she felt herself compelled to flee… to run away as fast as she could from the horrific images of destruction and death… to flee to a place where she could banish such things from her memory forever… to seek a place where she could un-see those things that had been seen.

But of course no such place exists, no matter how intensely one might wish to find it. And so she settled for an open spot along the rail: An out of the way spot, just ahead of Lifeboat Nine, where she could be free from prying eyes… Free to do as she felt compelled without intrusion or question.

With a quick glance about to satisfy herself that such privacy was indeed hers, Rose set about the task of forfeiting the contents of her stomach to the sea, never having been so grateful for having skipped breakfast that morning. Her crimson curls fluttered in the stiffening breeze as several waves of dry heaves rolled over her, finally releasing her quivering form after several agonizing seconds.

Nothing in her life had ever prepared her for this, she silently concluded through ragged gasps of air. Growing up in the ivory tower of Edwardian high society, life had been all about pomp and circumstance, discipline and duty. Her education had consisted almost entirely of classical literature and etiquette lessons… her experiences exclusively those of cotillions and high teas. This darker side of life, with all of its pain and suffering and death and destruction, was completely foreign to her. None of the countless books she had read growing up had even mentioned such things, let alone given her any insight into their anguished nature. Such tomes had always portrayed war as a chivalrous and romantic art, filled with honor and glory: A grand spectacle of two armies in brightly colored uniforms meeting on the sun-drenched field of battle… clashing together with order and dignity until one finally and graciously admitted defeat.

But this… this was none of that. There was no chivalry… no honor… no dignity in defeat nor grace in victory. This was, to put it simply, slaughter. It was indiscriminate killing at a distance, using technology as a tool to mercilessly and overwhelmingly bludgeon an enemy into submission, with no regard for fairness or the humanity of one's adversary.

These warriors of a time yet to be killed from beyond the horizon. They killed with a cold and calculated detachment, as casual as a handshake and as impersonal as a letter marked "occupant." There was no looking one's enemy in the eye before running him through with a bayonet on this battlefield. One did not see the photographs of his wife and children that he carried in the pocket of his uniform. They were destroyed along with him. In this futuristic world of warfare, battle was reduced to a blip on a screen, a few shouted commands, the push of a button, a brief flash of light, a small puff of smoke in the distance, and then… silence.

All in all, the picture it painted was one of a world filled with terror and uncertainty: A world where indiscriminate death could rain down at any time and from any direction. It was a portrait of a horrifying hell-scape, and its haunting images shook her to her very core. She was without tether… awash in a sea of suffering and savagery without any means of keeping herself afloat through it all. She needed stability. She needed salvation. She needed something strong and solid to hold on to.

_"Dogcatcher, this is Boxer One! You guys okay down there?"_

There it was! Amongst all of the chaos and confusion, she had found the rock that she could hold onto. As long as she could hear sound of Jack's voice, she could find her center, and she would be okay. If she could just focus on him for the rest of this ordeal, then she would survive, and tomorrow would be another day.

_"We're all right, Boxer One! You boys just focus on keeping those bogeys off of us! We'll cover things down here!"_

_"Roger that!"_

Wiping her mouth with her sleeve and wishing to no end that she had a glass of water at that particular moment, Rose looked up just in time to see Jack and Tommy streak past. Blasting across her field of view from left to right, they both climbed steeply before turning in unison and heading out to sea, a pair of righteous protectors on high returning to the fight above once again.

"Christ! Look out!" someone behind her shouted, and she looked down from the heavens just in time to see a damaged plane bearing in fast, hurling directly toward the wall of black steel that was Titanic's starboard flank. With one wing burning, it wobbled slightly and momentarily righted itself before flipping over and smashing into the sea a few hundred yards away, dissolving into a fireball on impact. And from that fireball, a river of debris came rolling across the wave tops, leaping and tumbling as though it would never cease in its momentum. A few of the larger pieces slammed hard against the hull with a resounding "thunk," forcing her to retreat from the rail, but she quickly shook off the surprise and dashed forward once more, leaning out over the bulwark as far as she dared to inspect whatever further damage they may have taken.

She smiled inwardly as she peered downward, thinking of what her mother's reaction would be to seeing her only child dangling her self in a very un-ladylike fashion nine stories above a freezing sea. She was sure that the Bukater matriarch would have flown into hysterics at the sight, or perhaps suffered a heart attack on the very spot. But fortunately for Ruth's own health she was not there, and fortunately for the Titanic, the violent impact had apparently failed to pierce the ship's one-inch-thick steel hide. For the moment, they were all still safe.

For the moment…

But for how much longer?

* * *

That was the great unspoken question. The question that hung heavy on the lips of each and every person on board the great ship of dreams that morning. How much longer could these warriors of the sky hold the line? How much longer would their luck hold out? Would any of them ever reach New York?

As if in answer to those very questions, the sky to the southeast suddenly came alive with multiple puffs of dark smoke. Like the first tentative kernels of corn bursting forth in an oil-filled saucepan, they flashed sporadically across the horizon, punctuating the few wispy white clouds with accents of charcoal gray.

It was a development that did not go unnoticed in other parts of the ship. Twelve stories above the forecastle deck, a lookout frantically smashed the receiver of the telephone to his face and willed the officer of the bridge to pick up.

"Contact! Off the port bow!" not even waiting for acknowledgement upon hearing the telltale "click" of someone picking up on the other end. "Five miles out and closing!"

"Contact confirmed, bearing one-six-three degrees! Range, four point eight nautical miles! Speed, forty-five knots!" Sandoval gleefully reported with a careful check of his mysterious instrument. "I.F.F. transmission received! It's The Sullivans!"

"'Bout damn time! Somebody get a hold of that tin can and tell 'em to bring down hellfire on these bastards!" Braxton's rough voice was carried via squawk box throughout the ship. "All units, run a containment sweep to the northwest and push them back! It's time to grab 'em by the nose and kick 'em in the ass!"

Charging across the waves at flank speed, the towering form of the Arleigh-Burke-class destroyer quickly came into view on the horizon and proceeded to rapidly grow in size as it bore down directly upon White Star's finest vessel to date. Like a western hero in a white hat riding to the rescue, she approached at full gallop with five-inch-guns blazing, her integrated Ageis combat information system working overtime to differentiate friend from foe amidst the swirling confusion of the skirmish above.

From the armored bridge perched high atop the ziggurat-like superstructure, men with binoculars watched as the Harriers swept wide around to the far side of the enemy formations and began herding them like sheep, forcing them ever closer to a pre-determined kill zone that lay like quicksand beneath the awesome power of this floating fortress. A select and fortunate few managed to evade the deadly trap, slipping through narrow gaps in the dragnet, but they were the exception to the rule this day. The telltale streaks of Sea Sparrow and Rolling Airframe missiles leapt forward from the decks as the remainder of the hapless yet still hostile forces came within range. They were soon joined once again by the might of five-inch flak shells bursting in mid-air, and then moments later, by the 20-millimeter furry of Phalanx cannons.

For the forces of neo-fascism, it was all simply too much. Caught between the vice-like claws of a well-coordinated air defense and a 21st-century warship with state-of-the-art weaponry and integrated command-and-control, the remains of their aerial armada were quickly cut to ribbons. Advanced Doppler radar tracked and anticipated their every move… surface-to-air missiles blasted their planes into shrapnel… and what little remained of their once vaunted force was shredded by flak bursts so intense that they turned the blue sky black with their angry, boiling fury. It was slaughter: A mass execution of the first order.

But for the souls aboard R.M.S. Titanic, it was salvation, and a mighty cheer rose up from her teak decks as the mist-gray leviathan with a clipper bow came about and gradually pulled abreast on the port side, slowing to match the great liner's pace. The day had been carried. Deliverance had arrived.

_"Terminate wolf pack! Terminate wolf pack! Dogcatcher, this is Watchdog! Radar report, remaining bandits are bugging out!"_ the radio call came, ringing in all its anti-climactic glory even as it was nearly drowned out by shouts of jubilant celebration. Along the length of the A-Deck promenade, men and women alike emerged from hiding to offer an enthusiastic round of applause, while deep in steerage the kegs of dark ale were broken out and men raised foam-dripping glasses in a raucous toast of celebration and gratitude. The scene on the bridge was more subdued, but every bit as jubilant as officers and enlisted men alike shook hands and congratulated each other on a job well done. Smith, of course, remained as stoic and unflinching as ever, his expression unreadable beneath his immaculate beard. He was a senior officer of the White Star Line, after all: He had an image to maintain.

With a careful eye on his command he watched as his officers traded congratulatory pats on the back with the soldiers in their midst, then bid their goodbyes as the powered down their strange equipment returned to the hastily-converted lounge. With operations quickly returning to normal, he stepped up silently behind the young helmsman and gave a closer inspection of the odd device to his right. With its screen now darkened, there was virtually nothing legible to be seen upon its surface, save for one singular and senseless word, displayed on a small plaque that sat affixed to the upper-left corner of the case…

_"Raytheon."_

"Light of the Gods… indeed." he sniffed indignantly, remembering his Greek. He shook his head in disbelief as he turned and stepped out onto the port side wing bridge, heading off to check in with Misters Phillips and Bride in the Wireless Room. Truth be told, even having that particular innovation aboard his vessel didn't set well with him. Men had been going to sea for centuries without the aid of wireless communications, after all. Why should things suddenly be so different? But to spite his reservations, he held his tongue. This new technology had very little to do with his own duties, after all. The presence of the radio was intended primarily for the convenience of the passengers… its operators paid employees of the Marconi Company… not the White Star Line. But when it came to matters of this new "radar" technology to which he had so recently been introduced, well…

Taken by name, it even sounded ridiculous.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the sky far above, the sense of celebration was being shared in equal measure. Squadrons began to regroup and reform as pilots traded complimentary and even somewhat braggadocios remarks.

_"Y'all run home now and tell your mamas that you've been beaten by the boys of the Black Sheep Squadron, ya hear now!"_ one such pilot cat-called at the retreating form of the few surviving Sabers. _"'Cause when ya mess with the best, ya die like the rest!"_

_"Alright dudes! THAT'S what I'm talking about!"_ Jack's voice rang out amongst the chatter. _"Dogcatcher One, we're ready to come home! Just tell us when to call the ball!"_

_"Negative ball, Boxer Flight. That's a negative ball."_

_"Come again?"_

_"I think he's talking about that mess down there, Jackie."_

Peering down over the side of the cockpit, Jack quickly realized the nature of the problem they faced. Even from their current range and altitude, the smoldering wreckage of what had once been the stern was clearly evident. His heart and his stomach seemed to switch places as he looked down at what had been their only available airfield, and realized that returning to the ship they had just saved was now thoroughly out of the question. He and Tommy were both effectively homeless now: Naval aviators whose carrier had just been damaged beyond any hope of repair. They were war orphans of a sort, and just like all orphans, questions of what would become of them were squarely at the forefront of their minds.

_"So what are our orders, sir?"_ Jack finally asked after several seconds. _"What do we do now?"_

_"Well your birds are probably getting pretty thirsty 'bout now, so the first order of business is to get you boys a fill up."_ Braxton answered. _"Once that's out of the way, we'll be diverting you to the Saipan. She's still about an hour out, but with your tanks filled you'll have no trouble making it."_

_"But… All of my stuff is down there!"_ Tommy's anguished cries called out. _"My clothes… my wallet… my troll doll collection!"_

_"Oh jeez! Did you actually bring THAT tribute to tackiness onboard?"_ Jack moaned into the microphone.

_"Hey! I've got a lot of money invested in that set, pal! And besides, it's a perfectly legitimate hobby."_

_"So's spoon collecting. But that doesn't make it any less dumb."_

_"Alright! That's enough out of you two!"_ Braxton barked over the airwaves. _"Joker, you can rest assured that your extensive and vaguely disturbing collection of nineties kitsch will be looked after with all the care and respect that it deserves."_

_"So which boiler are you gonna pitch it in, sir?"_

_"Bite me, fly boy!"_

_"Trapper! Hawkeye! Knock it off already!"_ Braxton bit back. "_I swear, I don't know which is worse: Dealing with my twin four-year-old nephews… or you two."_

_"We're cuter."_

_"And almost speaking in complete sentences now."_

(Dead air.)

_"Colonel?"_

(Still nothing.)

_"Uh, sir?"_

_"Come… about… to… course… one… seven… zero." the menacing tone rolled up from the speakers, one strained and drawn-out word at a time. "Rendezvous… with… the… tanker… en… route."_

_"Yes sir."_

_"And once you're aboard, you'd both better make damn sure I don't see you for the rest of this deployment."_

_"Understood sir."_

_"Good. Now get the hell out of here."_

_"Uh, sir?"_

_"WHAT?"_

_"Permission to buzz the tower?"_

There was a long period of tense silence, during which both young pilots wondered if they should be prepared for a court martial in their very near future, or to have their radios suddenly explode.

_"Granted."_ Braxton amazingly acquiesced. _"The pattern is clear."_

Neither of them dared question such a gesture of unfathomable generosity. They each dipped a wing in unison and swung their noses toward the grand vessel below them.

Approaching from the bow, the two gleaming craft dropped low, morning sun glinting off their polished aluminum skin like mirrors. Tommy took the port side while Jack swung to starboard, dropping so low for his pass that he actually found himself looking up at the gleaming white superstructure and the rows of equally white lifeboats, each neatly covered and resting securely beneath its davit: A condition that they would now most likely never leave. But from amidst this towering sea of white, a small patch of color reached out to grab his attention. Small, and yet still obvious in its contrast, it stood out just aft of mid-ship, beneath the towering visage of Funnel Number Three: A tiny speck of crimson that he would recognize from anywhere… even if it were on the moon.

_"Rose."_

It was this solitary thought that raced through his mind, even as the great liner rushed by his canopy. In all of the excitement, he had completely forgotten about her. How could he have let that happen? And what was he going to do? With the option of returning to the ship shot to hell, (almost literally), there was no way to go back and retrieve her… No way of enacting the rest of his escape plan. Granted, it wasn't much of a plan to begin with, (just hide out on the ship until they docked in New York, then use the cover of the crowd to run like hell), but at least it was something. Now he was left with nothing, and although they were only separated by a distance of less than twice his wingspan, they might as well have been on opposite sides of the planet.

But he would be damned to Hell if he was going to let a little thing like physical distance stop him. He was a Marine, after all. The word "can't" simply wasn't in his vocabulary. He would fulfill his mission, and pull his Rose out of that gilded prison known as High Society. Come hell or high water, failure was not an option.

Climbing past the still smoldering stern, he banked sharply to his left and reversed course through a high, wingover turn. Then, dropping low and leveling out once more, readied himself for another pass, this time at an altitude level with that of the boat deck. With his right hand tensing on the stick, he kept a sharp eye out for that familiar auburn mane, and soon found it right where it had been before, just forward of Lifeboat Nine.

A lightning-quick flick of his wrist dipped his left wing low as he roared past, forming a gesture of salute, or reassurance, depending on how one interpreted it. He could only hope that Rose had seen it, and that she would understand the meaning behind it. She had to know that he hadn't forgotten her… that he hadn't forgotten them… and that just because he may not physically be with her, she was by no means alone. Like MacArthur in the Philippines, he would one day return, and they would have their "happily ever after."

But if there had been any such hidden meaning in Jack's high-flying gesture, it was lost on the young redhead. Watching the Harrier's sleek form zoom past for the second time, she felt as though she was watching her entire world fly away. As Jack climbed again to regroup with Tommy and turn slowly to the southeast, it was as if any hope she had for future happiness went with him, receding away at ever-increasing speeds until it finally disappeared beyond the horizon. She was back where she started, sailing to America with a greedy mother and an overbearing fiancé aboard the most luxurious slave ship in history: A human commodity being auctioned off to the highest bidder… silently screaming out in agony… isolated amidst a floating city of more than 2,200 souls.

And yet somehow… she had never felt so alone.

* * *

Clothes and personal items lay strewn about the finely appointed cabin as its sole occupant went about her business. The overall look was of a room that had just been ransacked, but she honestly didn't care. Working almost blindly, she grabbed the contents of drawers and stuffed them without care or fanfare into the finely embroidered bag that sat upon the bed, her mind in another place.

Life onboard ship had been a blur in the few hours since Jack's departure. The strange equipment that had sprung up so suddenly at various locations throughout the ship had been broken down and packed away with frightening efficiency, the various crates with their obscure markings stockpiled atop the roof of the lounge, between the second and third funnels. The same wondrous craft with their spinning blades and hunchbacked profiles appeared overhead shortly before ten o'clock, but without a clear deck to land upon, were forced to hover above and hoist their cargoes aboard by means of cable winches.

Once the materials were safely secured, it was time for the men to follow, and it had been at this point that she had found Fabrizio, strapping himself into the harness that would allow him to be hoisted aboard as well. With her voice nearly inaudible above the roar of the blades, she had virtually screamed out in askance, begging to be taken with him. But all of her pleading had been in vain, as Fabrizio had only shook his head sadly and informed her that there was simply no room aboard the great flying machine above them. The only thing he had given her, if it was any consolation at all, was the small device that Jack had pulled from his pocket the previous night: Right after the iceberg had exploded in front of them.

He had pushed the device into her quivering hands, wrapping it in a sheet of paper which he said held instructions on how it operated, and reiterated how sorry he was. Then, with a final apologetic glance, he flashed a signal to an unseen face above, and was lifted up into the open sky. Seconds later, a door slid closed and the craft roared out over the open sea, receding away until it too vanished over the horizon, leaving her alone in stunned silence.

Following that final goodbye, she had wandered the ship, her path meandering aimlessly without any notice paid to where she was or where she was going. Eventually, her circuitous route brought her to the stern, and she slowly ascended the steel steps to the damaged poop deck, which the ever-vigilant crew had yet to cordon off. She took care avoid the gaping hole left by the wrecked fighter as she stepped gingerly over and around pieces of both the plane and the ship itself, until she finally stood at the rail beside the ensign flag, which although badly singed by its fiery ordeal, still flapped proudly from its staff.

It brought a tear to her eye, seeing what had become of the spot where she and Jack had first met. The smell of fuel and charred wood still hung heavy in the air, and the deck around her was littered with debris. To one side, a large dent had been laid into the rail, compacting the once neatly aligned steel tubes to a tangled mess barely one-half their original height. The formerly immaculate space had been reduced to a thorough wreck, and it all seemed a fitting metaphor for her future: A future that now appeared far less likely to include a certain blue-eyed artist-slash-aviator.

But far more had transpired on that deck than just a chance encounter between two soon-to-be lovers. It was also the place where one of those lovers had made a promise to the other. It was the place where she had bid Jack goodbye… where she had promised him that she would make good on her escape, whether he was there to assist her or not.

And so she had returned to B-Deck and the suite she shared with the two people who she now considered to be her jailers. Thankfully, the room had been empty except for her faithful maid Trudy, so she had been able to set about the task of packing without question. In the back of her mind she realized that perhaps it was not the most prudent course of action. The smart play would be to make nice with Cal and her mother, pretending that nothing was amiss until they docked in New York. Then, once the chaos of the crowded pier was upon them, slip quietly away into the throng… and never look back.

But even with logic's unbending glare upon her, she simply couldn't bring herself to spend another minute with Cal's smugness or her mother's obsessive social climbing. The thought of even one more evening spent trapped down on D-Deck in the dining saloon, listening to endless conversations about business and politics while being paid no more attention than the chair she was sitting in, left her feeling nauseous and upset. She had to get out, and get out now. It didn't matter where. She would hide out below decks… in steerage… using the multi-level maze of passages as a labyrinth in which to conceal her self. Perhaps she would even use the same cabin that Jack had stayed in. She simply needed to make her move, and the sooner she did so, the better.

"Here is the blouse you wanted, Miss Rose." Trudy's soft voice questioningly called from the open door of her bedchamber.

"Thank you, Trudy." She responded without looking up. "Put it there on the bed, would you please?"

"Are you really leaving Mister Hockley?" the young Irish woman asked in bewilderment as she did as instructed.

Rose sighed heavily. In all honesty, she didn't care to be having this conversation right now, but the young woman with hair to match her own was probably the closest thing to a friend that she had left on the ship, and the least she could do was favor the poor girl with an explanation.

"Yes, I am." She admitted, momentarily ceasing her preparations. "It's simply something that I feel compelled to do."

"But whatever for?" her young face begged in askance. "If it is because of the unfortunate incident at breakfast the other morning, I am quite certain that Mister Hockley did not mean to lose his temper in such a manner. He is normally such a calm and even-tempered man. Surely you must realize this."

"No, it's not that, Trudy." Rose admitted, unconsciously placing a hand against her stinging cheek as the memory of Cal's rage came flooding back to her. "I mean… that is a part of the reason, but the issue runs far deeper than that. I honestly wouldn't expect you to understand.

"And to be honest, in a strange way, I actually envy you." She admitted, turning to place a comforting hand on the shoulder of her faithful valet. "For while you may lament being only a spectator to world of high society, that distance shields you from all of the darker elements of that world. You may spend your nights worrying about such things that women like me will never need to concern ourselves with, but the life you lead is your own, as are your decisions, and no one can ever take that from you.

"You may look longingly upon the trappings of wealth that surround us, Trudy," she sadly concluded, turning her attention back to the partially packed bag on the mattress, "but I would gladly trade every last piece of finery I own for just a fleeting taste of the freedom you take for granted."

"Well I would hope not everything."

Both women spun around at the sudden intrusion of a new voice in the conversation, and Rose found herself face to face with the last person she ever wanted to see again.

"Some of your 'finery', as you put it, was rather expensive, after all." Cal haughtily scoffed, his swollen nose still bearing the mark of their encounter in the lounge the night before.

Rose did not respond to the snide remark, instead choosing to return to her packing. It was as if she thought him a bad dream, and if she did not acknowledge his presence, then he would simply cease to exist.

"Trudy? Would you be a dear and leave us alone for a moment?" Cal asked in his sickly condescending way.

The young maid curtsied and dutifully left the room, a look of concern deeply etched across her face. She knew the violence that her master was capable of. And even if such outbursts were rare, the mere potential for such an act sent a shiver down her spine. As she closed the door to the bedchamber behind her, she quickly crossed herself and said a short and silent prayer for her mistress.

"Going somewhere, sweet pea?" Cal inquired as he approached his fiancé from behind, his tone suddenly far more menacing that it had been mere moments before.

Her hands still feverishly working within her bag, Rose searched desperately for an explanation that would quell the building storm. She needed something plausible… something that Cal would find both believable and satisfactorily soothing to his ego… but nothing sprung to her mind, and she soon concluded that such an explanation simply did not exist. There was only one option available: The cold and unvarnished truth.

"Yes." Came her curt reply.

"I see." Cal pondered as he leaned over her shoulder, his warm breath prickling like knives at the back of her neck. "May I inquire as to where you might be going?"

"Away from you." She admitted matter-of-factly.

"Obviously, as I was unaware of any pending departure. And may I also inquire as to why?"

Rose threw down the bag and spun to face the arrogant steel baron, her auburn locks whipping about her face.

"Let's not waste time beating around the bush Cal!" She said sternly. "It behooves neither of us. We both know perfectly well that this so-called storybook engagement is nothing more than a sham. It's a dog and pony show put on for the media and a few of your more gullible friends. There's nothing real for either of us here, so I'm leaving you and this whole haute couture world behind. I'm sure that one day you'll find a nice girl with a good name, who will be more than happy to sit there quietly and be your perfect porcelain doll, but that's simply not me, and it never will be. So I'm leaving to save us both all the heartache and pain of learning these lessons the hard way."

"So, you're running off to find your gutter rat then, are you?" he sneered, causing her blood to boil even stronger.

"Stop calling him that!" she growled, waving a finger in his face. "And to answer your question, yes! I am going to find him! I'm going to find him and run away with him, and we're going to spend the rest of our lives as Mister and Missus Outrageously Happy!"

"Really? Surely you jest, sweet pea." Cal scoffed at her declaration, crossing his arms haughtily over his chest.

"I'm serious about this, Cal." Rose spat back defiantly as she moved to the bureau and began rummaging through one of the drawers.

"I'm sure you are." Cal patronizingly agreed. "But may I ask how you plan on locating him? Perhaps you're planning on building a time machine? Have you also been running around with H. G. Wells behind my back?"

"No, of course not." Rose snorted derisively as she fetched a few things from the drawer and returned to her bag. "I'm going to let him find me. As soon as I'm on the ground in New York, I'm going to do something that will get me mentioned in the papers. With any luck, at least one of those papers will wind up as part of an archive in a century's time, and if Jack searches that archive, it'll be like sending up a flare marking exactly when and where I was on that day. Finding me from there would be child's play."

Taking a step back to regard his young fiancé as she continued to dash about, fetching items from various points in the room, Cal was forced to grudgingly admit that he hadn't given Rose enough credit. To spite having little time and no measurable resources, she had actually managed to put together the basic elements of a workable plan. Sometimes she could be surprising in her resourcefulness.

But that didn't mean he was going to let any of this nonsense stand. He had a reputation to uphold, after all, and if it were ever to become public knowledge that his fiancé had abandoned him to run away with some penniless swine from steerage, he would never in a million years manage to live it down.

"Well played, Rose. Well played indeed." He commended with an approving nod of his head. "You've mapped out a strategy and you're putting it into play. If you weren't a woman, I'd say you had a bright future in business."

The remark made her cringe, but she hid it well. Jack's amazing tales of a future in which young girls were free to grow up and have lives of their own… to be more than the mere property of their husbands had shown her just how stifled she truly was. The wool had been ripped from her eyes, and the arrogant sexism that she now saw all around her made her sick to her stomach.

"But I feel I must inform you that you've overlooked one substantial detail." He cryptically continued, slowly approaching Rose once more as she probed the depths of the nightstand.

"Oh really? And what precisely would that be?" she inquired, fetching a small jewelry box and roughly shoving the drawer closed. She turned to face him, but almost instantly found her wrist locked in a painful, vice-like grip.

The finely painted box crashed to the floor, breaking its hinges as Cal tightened and twisted his grip. And although she did her best not to scream, the searing pain of Cal's gesture was written across her face as her knees buckled and she was driven roughly to the floor.

"Simple. It's a little part of the business world that you may have heard of;" he contemptuously sneered. "A little something called 'contract law'." Almost mercifully, he chose that moment to release her arm, allowing her contorted form to fall roughly back against the side of the bed.

"You see, my dear Rosebud, when I agreed to marry you, the Hockleys and the DeWitt-Bukaters entered into a contract." He explained as he stood towering over her quivering form, speaking as if addressing a two-year-old. "The terms of this contract were simple: My family covers the debts of your own, and in return your family provides me with a bride of suitable pedigree. Now I'm going to make something of a leap here and assume that you are astute enough to at least comprehend your role in all of this."

Rose simply glared up at him, matching his disgusted sneer as she massaged her throbbing wrist.

"Yes, well…" Cal chuckled at her wordless response. "In any case, so far my family has been good to their word in honoring our side of the contract, and you can rest assured when I tell you that we have every intention of continuing to do so. But with that as prelude, it now holds true that we expect your family to honor their end of the deal. And you running off to play street whore to some fourth-class gutter rat simply does not comport with such expectations."

By now, Rose had managed to regain her feet, and she stared her soon-to-be ex-fiancé straight in his cold, gray eyes, burning as much contempt and raw hatred into his smug face as she could muster.

"I'd rather be his whore than your wife!" she spat.

Cal's hand flew like lightning, and before she even knew what was happening she was laying across the bed with the familiar sting burning across her cheek once more.

"Allow me to make myself more clear." He growled threateningly as he leaned in over her. "This particular clause of the contract is non-optional and non-negotiable. You will comply with the terms, you will accompany me to Philadelphia, you will marry me, you will follow my every instruction, and when the time comes, you will bear me a suitable heir to carry on the Hockley name. Is… that… clear?"

"And what if I refuse?" Rose growled back as she tried desperately to get her jaw working once again. She honestly didn't care if Cal beat her unconscious over this. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of yielding to his will.

Cal sighed in resignation at the response. Such insolence from his young firebrand of a fiancé was predictable, he was quickly learning: Regrettable… but predictable.

Fortunately however, he had come prepared for just such a contingency.

Suddenly, Rose became aware of the feeling of cold steel upon her still aching wrist, and a crisp, metallic "click" came firmly to her ears. Bolting her head up from the mattress, she immediately noticed two things: First, was the gleaming manacle of a handcuff fastened snugly just below her hand. Second, was Cal securing its partner to a solid section of the bed frame.

She looked up at him, a look of abject terror burning deep within her eyes, and Cal's smirk only grew. There were many advantages to being a Hockley, and one of them was the fact that he always won. Winning was a birthright for men of his stature, after all. Darwin had shown how the forces of evolution had rendered his kind superior to the lower classes. It was only logical that perpetual victory would be his way of life.

Of course superior genetics and conditioning could only carry a man so far, he admitted as he watched his fiancé struggle mightily against her bonds, thrashing about like a trapped animal as she pulled and yanked at the stout chain. Luck also had a role to play in any grand endeavor, and it had certainly been a stroke of luck when that fantastic flying machine had crashed into the stern. It was the one twist of fate in this entire ordeal, completely unforeseen, that had rid him of that troublesome ruffian and delivered his property back into his waiting hands. Sometimes, even fate itself seemed to favor him: Another perk of being superior.

"So now that we understand each other, allow me to explain the ground rules." Cal grinned menacingly at his helpless prey. "You will remain confined to your quarters for the duration of this voyage. Trudy will bring your meals to you. If you require use of the lavatory, Lovejoy will accompany you. Otherwise, you are to remain in this room, and in those restraints. These terms are non-negotiable and your personal opinions are irrelevant. There will be no further discussion of this arrangement. End of story."

Finally acknowledging the futility of her situation, Rose stopped her struggle and turned to face the conceited tycoon in her midst, a fiery rage burning deep within her soul.

"You arrogant, selfish, soulless son of a bitch!" she spat with absolute contempt. "You might be able to make me marry you, but you'll never make me love you!" She took a swing at his smug face with her free hand, but Cal simply caught the intended blow and bent her arm painfully backward. With his other hand he lashed out and grabbed her about the throat, lifting her light frame off the floor as he slowly cut off her air supply.

"It's not your duty to love me, sweet pea." He snarled, watching her writhe and squirm as she fought for breath. "It's your duty to obey me. Do you see this here? This ring?" He forced her hand up into her own face so that the opulent engagement ring was directly in view. "This isn't a piece of jewelry: It's a brand. It tells the world that you belong to me. And like all things within my domain, I demand absolute obedience."

With a forceful shove, he threw her back onto the bed like a rag doll and stood over her quivering, gasping form once more.

"And don't think for a moment that I've forgotten the little show you put on last night upstairs." He added, turning toward the door. "We'll be discussing that particular transgression at a later date."

With a self-satisfied smile, he turned to leave, but paused with his hand on the doorknob when a weak and frightened voice called out behind him.

"So that's all I am to you then, is it?" Rose meekly asked. "Just a bauble? A brood mare? Something pretty to flaunt in front of your colleagues and a vessel to bear your children?"

Slowly, Cal turned and regarded her with a look that bordered on actual pity.

"Honestly, my dear Rosebud, it pains me to know you ever considered yourself anything more."

And with that soul-crushing farewell he left the room, closing and locking the door behind him. He could safely add this one to the victory column now: Another notch on an ever growing list, and the knowledge of that victory made his lunch-hour appetite all the more ravenous.

Tossing on his jacket, he left the suite heading for the Grand Stairs and the dining saloon below, barely noticing the anguished wails emanating from the adjoining room.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Okay, that tears it! Cal's done crossed the line this time! Where's my Jose Canseco autographed baseball bat? (That's right… I said "Canseco." Can you believe that I actually paid for this thing?)

And now before everyone jumps down my throat for hating on Oakland, just let me say that I have nothing against the Athletics. It's the American League in general that I can't stand! Stupid prima-Donna pitchers… Too lazy to walk from the dugout to the plate so they have their freakin' butlers go out there and hit for them… Hey! You're mocking the integrity of the game, jerk wads!

But anywhoooooo… Enough of my borderline-psychotic ranting. It's time we got down to business...

_North American F-100 Super Saber:_ Flown by the United States Air Force between 1954 and 1971, the F-100 was the first member of the Air Force's so-called "Century Series" aircraft, and the first American fighter to be capable of exceeding the sound barrier in level flight. Known affectionately as "The Hun," (an abbreviated reference to the number one hundred), it was originally built as a higher-performance follow-up to North American Aviation's venerable F-86 Saber air superiority fighter. However, the design proved so successful that it would ultimately be adapted to the roles of fighter-bomber and close air support as well.

Although it would eventually be supplanted in these roles by the Republic F-105 Thunderchief and the Chance-Vought A-7 Corsair II respectively, and face final retirement at the hands of the Air National Guard in 1979, the Super Saber would ultimately earn a place as one of the most innovative and successful aircraft in history.

And on a related note… has anybody ever noticed the similarities between a Super Saber and an F-105 Thunderchief? I mean, seriously? The wing profile? The shape of the fuselage? The angle of the tail? All you need to do is move the intakes from the nose to the wing roots, give them that funky flare design, roughly double the size of the overall result and voila! You've got yourself a Thud!

It's kind of odd actually, when you consider that they were built by entirely different companies. I mean, the obvious similarities between the F-4 Phantom and the F-101 Voodoo are easy to explain: They're both products of McDonnell-Douglas. But with the Super Saber being a North American Aviation product, and the Thud coming to you courtesy of Fairchild-Republic... Go figure.

_Docking Bridge:_ Funny thing… I just realized that I've mentioned this particular feature of the ship multiple times throughout this story, and I've yet to explain just what the bleep it is. Long story short, the docking bridge was an elevated platform near the stern, running transversely across the forward end of the poop deck. It's intended function was to provide a vantage point and a means of control when executing the delicate maneuvers involved with docking the ship abreast at a pier. To this end, it was equipped with telegraphs, (a.k.a. throttles), and a helm, allowing crew members to effectively steer the ship from both ends like a hook-and-ladder fire truck. Also, in the event of an equipment failure that rendered the bridge inoperable, navigation and command duties could be transferred to the docking bridge, allowing the ship to continue functioning.

Sadly, the docking bridge today is all but gone. When the air-filled stern sank early that morning, it wasn't long before the increasing water pressure initiated a series of implosions. (Some naval architects theorize that this may have begun within 50 feet of the surface.) Although the forensics are unclear due to the high degree of destruction, it's most likely that the process started in the turbine control room, then moved aft through the turbine room itself, into the refrigeration holds, then the aft cargo holds, and finally to the aft peak tank. From there, further implosions would have rolled upward like popcorn through the third-class compartments in an indeterminate order.

But bear in mind that while this is happening, all of that air isn't going anywhere. The stern is still vertical at this point in its plunge to the bottom, so as each compartment is crushed, that mass of air is compressed further and further into an ever-shrinking space. That's a lot of force for a structure to deal with, and at some point it became so great that the entire forward half of the poop deck was torn from its mountings and folded back upon itself like a giant steel taco, flipping… and then promptly crushing… the docking bridge.

Mmmmmmmm… Tacos!

_Aegis Combat System:_ Named for the legendary shield of Zeus in Greek mythology, Aegis is an integrated combat information and control system developed by the Missile and Surface Radar Division of RCA and currently manufactured by Lockheed-Martin. The system collects information a wide array of land-based, sea-based and airborne sources, and combines these data streams into a comprehensive and dynamic picture of the battlefield. The system can then assess various threats to friendly assets, allocate forces to deal with said threats, and if necessary, deploy and guide weapons onto their designated targets. Armed with this real-time three-dimensional picture, field commanders can stay informed of events as they unfold and issue command decisions without the confusion and uncertainty that has so often plagued combat operations in the past.

First deployed by the United States Navy in the mid-1980s, Aegis today is an integral component of fleet defense and combat control for a half-dozen different navies from across the world.

_Phalanx:_ A major component of the U.S. Navy's Close-In Weapon System, or CIWS, (pronounced "Sea Whiz), the Phalanx is a Gattling-style anti-aircraft and anti-missile gun with integrated radar-based targeting. With six rotating barrels, the gun itself is capable for firing up to 4,500 rounds per minute of 20-millimeter ammunition, while the swivel/tilt base allows for an exceptionally wide field of fire. Atop this assembly sits the barrel-like radar dome, which has long since led many military enthusiasts to dub these weapons as "R2-D2s," for their resemblance to the miniature droid in the Star Wars films.

_Raytheon:_ Established in 1922 by a pair of college roommates interested in developing new refrigeration technology, the American Appliance Company quickly shifted its focus to the manufacture of radio tubes. Demand was high for such devices, the college friends discovered, as at the time they represented the only means of converting household Alternating Current to the more appliance-friendly Direct Current without resorting to the use of expensive and short-lived conversion batteries. In 1925, flush with success from their newly shifted focus, the company re-christened itself as the Raytheon Manufacturing Company. "Raytheon," the company was quick to point out, was a term derived from the Greek, meaning "Light of/from the Gods."

The company's focus shifted again early in World War Two when British researchers developed a high-capacity tube for producing microwave radiation. They called it the "magnetron" and insisted it could vastly improve existing early detection systems for air defense. But Britain lacked the capacity to mass-produce such sophisticated technology, and turned to the United States for assistance. Raytheon's prior experience with radio tubes made them an ideal candidate for such a project, and by war's end, Raytheon was producing 80% of all the radar systems in the Allied arsenal.

Additionally, through the process of developing and refining the magnetron, researchers at Raytheon discovered the unique ability of microwave radiation to rapidly heat certain substances. This led to further research, and in 1945, company engineer Percy Spencer invented the world's first operational microwave oven.

Following the war, Raytheon began adapting its radar technology to the new field of guided missiles and quickly became an industry leader. In 1950, their KAQ-1 Lark missile became the first guided weapon to ever shoot down an aerial target. More successful programs would follow, including such weapons as the AIM-7 Sparrow, the MIM-23 Hawk and the AIM-54 Phoenix, the latter of which being the weapon around which the legendary F-14 Tomcat was built.

Today, the Raytheon Company is the fifth-largest military contractor in the world and stands as the world's largest single producer of guided missile systems. Its annual revenues stand somewhere in the range of $25 billion USD.

Oh, and if you have any questions about all this gobbledygook that I'm spitting out here, feel free to look this crap up on your own. It's called "Google" folks. (Jeez! You need me to do everything for you?)

So anyway, that just about wraps things up for this installment of our little tale. Hold on to your hats everyone, because we're fast approaching the end with only one more chapter, (and perhaps a short epilogue), to go. As always, my world-famous "review & reply" policy remains in full effect, so drop a line and receive a note from the author. You ain't gonna get a better deal than that!

Stay safe and stay frosty!

_Nutzkie…_


	7. A Promise Kept

**Usual Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

Alright! We all know the drill, so there's no need to go into a great deal of detail here. After all, disclaimers such as this are the literary equivalent of a speed bump at the end of your driveway. So let's just get through this quick and clean, and then move on to the reason that we're all _really_ here.

_Titanic_ is the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox, and about a half-dozen or so other production studios who managed to snag a piece of that action back in the late nineties. I personally don't own squat, so if you're ticked off and looking to sue, good luck, 'cause you can't get blood from a turnip. I hope you hire an expensive lawyer and run up a _huge_ legal bill, dip wad! (Gawd, being broke can be so liberating!)

Beyond that, anything not found in the movie or on the ocean floor could be construed as mine, I suppose. Although I'm sure there's some legal-eagle out there somewhere who would relish the opportunity to argue otherwise.

In short, the movie belongs to Jimmy Cameron, the profits belong to the studios, the Titanic belongs to the ages, this software belongs to Bill Gates, my kidneys belong to my bookie, and all your base belong to us!

Onward and upward…

* * *

**~ Chapter Seven ~**

_**A Promise Kept**_

"I'm afraid I must admit, John. You've rather outdone yourself with these accommodations."

"Your compliments are duly appreciated Caledon, as I can assure you it wasn't easy fitting this much luxury into such a small space."

"I can certainly imagine. It is all quite impressive."

"And quite safe as well. When planning these cars, Marian and I insisted on all the latest appliances. Steel underframes… automatic couplers… a signal line… even those new automatic air brakes that Mister Westinghouse has been pitching with so much success lately."

"Ol' George is really making a run of that idea, is he?"

"Most definitely. Of course having Congress pass that blasted act requiring their instalation made it somewhat easier for him. I can't imagine how much better my own business would be if public patronage was the law of the land."

"Agreed! And it's not as if he even had an original idea. In my industry, we've been using compressed air to purify our steel for decades now: A clever little part of the Bessemer Process that Carnegie's men came up with. Granted, the concept of using such forces to stop a train was something of a new innovation, but he can not lay claim to the use of pressurized air as a power source in general."

"Quite right."

"Indeed."

Rolling comfortably along through the countryside of upstate New York, the excitement and intrigue of the Titanic's maiden voyage was all but forgotten amidst the posh appointments of a private train. After disembarking at Pier # 59 on Manhattan's lower-west side, Cal and his entourage had met up with fellow first-class passengers John Thayer and his wife and son, who had promptly invited them to travel with their family to Philadelphia. And with John being Vice President of the Pennsylvania Railroad, the Thayers invariably rode the rails in style.

Following the railroad's broad, multi-track main line out of Penn Station, the conversation was as pleasant as the ride, drifting aimlessly between the topics of business, art and politics. After a quick dash through the darkness beneath the Hudson River and an even faster pause to change locomotives, the party was soon moving at maximum speed past quaint farmhouses and wooded hills, surrounded by the rural ambiance of the New England countryside.

But none of this mattered to the young woman in the next car.

Alone in a locked compartment with the shades drawn, Rose lay curled up on the narrow bunk in a fetal position. She didn't dare open the curtains, feeling that darkness was the only friend she had left. The rhythmic clicking of steel wheels upon iron rails droned on like a metronome, although to her ears it may as well have been the ticking of a clock, counting down the minutes until her execution.

Her mother had come and spoken with her immediately following their departure, but the elder Bukater's matronly words had offered little consolation, amounting to little more than an assertion that misery loved company. She had told her only daughter once again about how they were women and that women's choices were never easy. Nearly oblivious to her daughter's despair, he had droned on for several minutes about her own loveless marriage to Rose's father, and how her mother before her had endured similar circumstances. "Women of our position have been subjected to marriages of misery for generations." She may as well have said. "By what monumental gall do you claim the right to be happy when so many before you have been denied that same privilege."

Even now, the Titanic seemed so far away… as if it had all transpired a lifetime ago. She remembered the final conversation that she and Jack had shared, declarations of love and longing shouted above the roar of jet engines beneath the docking bridge. He had held her close and told her that she was strong… strong enough to make it on her own… strong enough to escape without him.

Oh, how wrong he had been. For to spite her best efforts, and Jack's unwavering faith in her, her feeble bid for freedom had been snuffed out before it had even truly begun. She hadn't even made it out of her own stateroom before Cal had set upon her like a hungry wolf and chained her, quite literally, to the life she had tried so desperately to escape.

For what felt like the hundredth time since Jack's fateful departure, she brought out the small device given to her by Fabrizio atop the lounge, and activated it, once again marveling as the parade of images began to play out across the screen.

She supposed that Jack wanted her to have something that would remind her of him. Perhaps something to hold onto and provide hope that he would one day return for her: A tangible artifact of the future that he had promised to provide.

She knew the pictorial narrative almost by heart now. There was the war to end all wars… and the war that would follow after that. There was a man by the name of "Lindbergh" who would one day cross the mighty Atlantic without ever touching the water, and another man who would lead a nation to mercilessly slaughter six million people, all the while calling it "social improvement." There was mankind unlocking the secrets hidden deep within the atom, and in the process creating the implement of his own potential destruction. There were countless struggles for freedom and human dignity, and the backlash that seemed to invariably follow. And then there was the image she was watching now… The one that still held her transfixed no matter how many times it was repeated.

There on the small screen, half hidden in a sea of black beyond a dirty white horizon, a brilliant orb of blue and green and swirling white hung suspended within the void. There was no music or explanation to accompany the image… just a lone voice of a flat monotone, reading the opening verses to the book of Genesis.

_"In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth…"_ the unseen narrator recited the words that she knew by heart. _"And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep…"_

When she had first seen it, the strange display had confused her. But now, staring deeply at the shimmering orb upon the screen, she recognized it for what it was: It was home. The only home she had ever known, as it was for every other human being who had ever existed. She was gazing upon the spaceship Earth, looking down upon all of humanity from a quarter-million miles distant, the diminutive fragility of life having never been so clear.

The image spoke to her on so many levels. Like the proverbial carrot on a stick it hung there, suspended within the infinite void of space… coaxing her… enticing her… begging her to reach out and touch it, yet remaining forever beyond her reach. It was the image of a world that would never be hers, no matter how much longed for it: The faint echo of a future that was not to be.

She loved Jack, and yet she hated him as well. She loved him for the things he had taught her, and the glorious world he had shown her… hated him for taking that very same world away. If she had only never met him, she would have never been exposed to such wonderful things, and she would have lived the rest of her life in blissful ignorance, never to be tormented by unobtainable images of life's true possibilities.

Her life was over, at least in any meaningful sense, and she had resigned herself to this fact. Her efforts for independence, valiant as they may have been, had ultimately proven in vain. She was broken… Her spirit shattered into a thousand jagged shards… And as she slowly accepted a life devoid of love and happiness, the fire that had burned so brightly within her began to flicker and dim. The walls of reality were closing in. She truly was a butterfly trapped in a glass jar, and that jar could not be broken.

Nothing mattered anymore, and so she took no notice. The clicking of the wheels no longer registered within her consciousness. Neither did the gentle sway of the train itself or the way the curtains danced lightly with the motion. She did not notice the subtle shift as the train rounded a gentle curve in the tracks, or the two dull thuds that resounded beneath the wheels as said curve released its centrifugal pull.

It was only when the train began gradually slowing that she became aware of something being amiss.

* * *

"I say now my good man, what seems to be the trouble?"

"We just struck a pair of signaling torpedoes, Mister Thayer." The bespectacled conductor informed his employer, pulling a large watch of polished silver from his pocket and giving a cursory check of the time. "We'll need to proceed at restricted speed until we can ascertain the condition of the tracks. Once we know the line is clear, we'll be back up and on schedule in no time."

"I see. Well, discretion is the better part of valor, I suppose. Carry on then."

Stuffing his watch back into the pocket of his vest, the conductor headed forward toward the locomotive, leaving the corporate executive alone with his guests.

"Trouble on the tracks, John?" Cal inquired with a smug grin, glancing over to Lovejoy who sat passively in the corner. The loyal manservant returned the grin, appearing equally amused by the railroad executive's misfortune.

"That's the trouble with running a railroad versus a factory." Thayer sighed and shrugged, seating himself next to his wife on one of the plush sofas. "Your operations are out in the open, where you have far less control over the conditions. So anyway, did I hear you right when you said that you were planning on buying out the Foley Brothers foundry in Buffalo?" He deftly turned the conversation back to the topic of business, hoping that the delay wouldn't last too long. After all, inviting distinguished guests to pay witness to the failings of your own company was no way to run a railroad.

The conversation continued in this pleasant vein for another ten minutes or so as the train crawled along at barely more than walking speed. But the gentle ebb and flow of dialogue was eventually broken by the squeal of iron brake shoes clamping down on steel wheels, and the sudden lurch of the train coming to a stop.

"Blessed virgin! What fresh new trial is this?" Thayer muttered under his breath. All of these delays were truly doing nothing to impress his guests, and as one of the larger shippers on his railroad, the Hockleys were a family that he could scarcely afford to lose face with. For several minutes, the group sat in relative silence, trading the occasional speculation about what the cause of the delay could be. It was only when impatience had forced Thayer to stand with the intention of going to retrieve the conductor that said "captain of the train" entered the compartment, ashen faced and holding his watch in a shaking hand.

"I'm afraid that everyone needs to… disembark… sir." He tentatively instructed, his eyes shifting nervously about the compartment.

"You mean get off the train? Here? In the middle of nowhere?" Thayer asked in disbelief. "Have you gone daft, man?"

"I'm sorry sir, but everyone needs to leave the train and proceed to the head end."

"But why? What's going on up there?"

"I… I don't know, sir."

"You don't know what's happening, and yet you're certain that we need to get off and walk?"

"Yes sir."

Thayer looked apprehensively back to his guests, taking note of Cal's amused smirk and the concerned expressions worn by the women in the room. There could be no doubt that this trip was now officially a full-blown disaster, and would be the source of considerable personal embarrassment for some time to come. But what could he really do? The conductor seemed adamant about the need to detrain, and it would do his reputation no service if he were to ignore the instructions of the crew, only to have his guests injured or killed as a result. The events he had witnessed while onboard the Titanic had taught him nothing if not the importance of exercising due caution.

"It is his train." Thayer shrugged apologetically.

"Technically, I believe it's your train." Cal pointed out in his typically smug fashion. "You're the company officer here, after all."

"Just grab your coat and go outside, Caledon." Thayer grumbled, offering a hand to his wife as she rose from the sofa. Honestly, he didn't know how some people were able to stand the stuck-up steel tycoon and his constantly condescending attitude.

"Uh, I'm sorry sir. But it's imperative that everyone aboard detrain at this point." The conductor clarified as he stepped aside to let Marian Thayer past.

With that observation, Cal and Ruth both exchanged a meaningful glance.

"I'll go fetch her." Cal sighed in annoyance. Honestly, what else about this hellish trip could possibly go wrong?

* * *

The answer to that question came a few minutes later when Caledon Hockley hobbled his way along the uneven ground, dragging his fiancé by the arm behind him. Rose was acting like a stubborn mule, resisting his every instruction, and the crushed rock of the rail bed was doing nothing for the high-mirror shine of his shoes. Italian leather, and expensive, they were. And after today… likely to never be worn again.

But such inconveniences paled in comparison to what he saw when they finally rejoined the group in front of the locomotive. There, directly in front of them, thoroughly blocking both tracks was a machine the likes of which he had hoped to never see again. It appeared somewhat larger than the one he had seen previously, although not by much, and it had a slightly different shape to its wings. Furthermore, the surface was of a flat gray tone with irregular blue patches rather than polished metal, but beyond those points the appearance was perfectly identical.

And then there was the individual standing beside it, leaning casually against the nose, reading a newspaper. His face and torso were well hidden behind the printed pages, but a pair of immaculately pressed uniform slacks, royal blue with a stripe of red piping stitched down the side, extended downward to a pair of mirror-like shoes. He seemed to pay no notice to the hastily assembled crowd, thoroughly engrossed in the events of the day.

Stepping up to join the rest of the group, he roughly shoved Rose between Lovejoy and himself, taking care to maintain his firm grip on her arm. Whatever was about to happen, he was bound and determined to be the one in control.

"Okay, we're all here. Just as you requested." The conductor nervously stammered, taking a tentative step forward. "Now would you mind telling us what this is all about?"

"I think I can venture a guess." Cal growled beneath his breath.

"I gotta say Cal, I'm rather impressed." An all-too familiar voice remarked, peering over the top of the paper to regard the group. "Making a move on the Foley mill? Going right into Andy Carnegie's back yard? I've really gotta hand it to you: You've got guts." He conceded, raising the paper again and continuing with his reading. "Not too sure about brains, but you've certainly do have guts."

_"JACK!"_

The voice inside her head was practically screaming his name, even as her heart threatened to burst from her chest. She had suspected something was afoot when the train had first begun to slow, but it wasn't until she heard his voice and saw his baby-blue eyes staring back at her that she knew for certain it was him. He had returned… for her. And although part of her was ashamed for having lost faith in him, a deeper part of her spirit had never flagged, and it was that small part that had sustained her throughout her ordeal.

Every instinct she had was telling her to run to him… to throw herself into his protective embrace and have him take her away from this horrid existence. But Cal's iron grip held her fast in place. She wasn't free just yet, but she was certain that such circumstances would not last long. She need only be patient, and give Jack's plan a chance to play itself out.

"I should have suspected you would show up again. You're just like an unlucky penny, I tell you what." Lovejoy muttered: A rare instance of him entering a conversation without explicit invitation. "Pray tell, how did you manage to find us?"

"It wasn't hard, Spicer. Turns out these things make great reference materials... Even the society pages." Jack casually explained, keeping his face concealed behind the newsprint shield. "Although a word of advice: The next time you're trying to travel below the radar, don't be talking to a reporter from The Times while you're waiting for your train."

_"As soon as I'm on the ground in New York, I'm going to do something that will get me mentioned in the papers."_ Rose's previous words rang through Cal's memory like a bell. _"It'll be like sending up a flare marking exactly when and where I was on that day."_ He winced inwardly as he recalled the beginning of their journey: Standing on the departing platform at Penn Station, their entourage had been approached by an eager young reporter with questions about their dramatic voyage from Europe and his own upcoming nuptials. And never having been one to turn down an opportunity for self-promotion, he had naturally obliged the enthusiastic young man.

He turned and shot his fiancé a discerning look as he slowly realized his own unwitting role in essentially carrying out her plan out for her. The irony of it all was not lost on him.

"What is it that you want, Dawson?" he spat with utter contempt. "Haven't you taken enough from us already?"

"Don't worry yourself about that Cal," Jack shrugged, dropping his paper and tucking it neatly under his arm, "because honestly, I'm in more of a giving mood right now." The dark blue coat of his uniform took on a deep sheen in the late morning light, and the bleach-white officer's cap positively gleamed, nearly outshining the multitude of silver and gold appointments that adorned his various points. A single bar of silver sat pinned to the epilate atop each of his shoulders, and above his left breast, a spread-winged eagle stood guard over a globe and anchor.

"You don't say." Cal scoffed, clearly unimpressed by neither the presentation nor the declaration.

"Believe it or not, yeah." Jack confirmed, taking two steps toward the group. "I'm here to give back, as it were. Or more specifically, I'm here to give Rose something that she's never had before: A choice."

Rose's heart soared at his words. It was actually happening! She would have her glorious future after all!

"You see it occurs to me that a rather important detail has been left out of the preparations for this wedding." Jack began to explain. "Apparently, between ordering the flowers, choosing the caterer and writing the guest list, somebody forgot to ask the bride about her feelings on the whole situation. Now call me old-fashioned, but that just strikes me as a rather glaring oversight. I mean it's her flippin' wedding after all."

He paused to pass a reassuring glance in Rose's direction, and she instantly felt at peace. Maybe it was the uniform, or perhaps it was the confident way with which he was carrying himself at the moment. But whatever the reason, Jack seemed to have the situation well in hand, and for the first time in what felt like years, she truly felt safe. Even as she stood amongst this den of wolves who had for so long claimed her as their prey, she felt no fear. Nothing could hurt her, just so long as Jack was there.

"So I guess what I'm trying to say is this:" Jack continued, looking the entire group over before allowing his gaze to settle upon the young redheaded socialite once more, "Rose… Do you want to go through with this wedding?"

It seemed so strange to her… Having someone ask for her honest opinion, and then actually take her answer into serious consideration. It was almost a foreign concept, having someone care about her feelings and not dismiss them as irrelevant. For the first time in her life she felt like a person rather than property… like she was truly human. The effect was almost intoxicating.

"Do you even need to ask?" She gasped incredulously. "Of course I don't!"

Jack smiled in response. Obviously, he had known what her answer would be, but for the sake of procedure he had been compelled to ask just the same.

"See? Was that so hard?" he grinned haughtily at the assembled group, shooting a barely-concealed wink in Cal's direction: A gesture that the steel baron found beyond infuriating.

He maintained his death-grip on Rose's arm, even as she tried to pull away and dash into her savior's embrace, and the glare he shot toward the uniformed marine could have melted the finest steel in his company's inventory. There had been a grand chess game of sorts playing out between the two of them ever since they had boarded in Southampton, he now understood. And by some miracle of fate, this lowly bottom feeder from the dregs of society had managed to back him into a corner of the board. But that didn't mean that the game was over. He still had pieces left in play, and it would be a cold day in Hell before he would roll over and let this miserable miscreant push him into checkmate.

"Now, now… Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, Dawson." Cal countered, drawing back his shoulders and assuming his most business-like pose. "We are all men of reason here. Surely we can reach some sort of understanding."

"I have my doubts about that, but go on." Jack said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Very well then. Here is my counter-proposal." Cal stated with a confident sneer that sent shivers down Rose's spine. She'd seen that same look in his eye before. It was the look of a vicious predator, poised and ready to set upon and devour his prey, even as said prey was unaware of the danger that lurked in the shadows. Cal was planning something… she was sure of it. And whatever trap he was about to spring, it was sure to not bode well for her or Jack, or the love that they shared.

"Since you so stubbornly refused my offer of cash," Cal began, "and I seriously doubt that you would accept gold in it's stead, then perhaps you would accept a different metal in exchange for discontinuing your pursuit of my fiancé. Say… lead for instance. Spicer?"

Rose could only stand frozen in terror as Lovejoy reached toward the left side of his dress jacket. She knew the weapon that lay concealed there, and she understood the frightening power of the .45 caliber Colt. One shot to the center of Jack's chest, (a feat that was a near certainty from that close of a range), and her lover would never even have the chance to know what had hit him.

As if witnessing events in slow motion, she watched as Lovejoy's hand disappeared beneath the fabric of his coat, and she heard the sickening click of a hammer being pulled back to its firing position.

…Which was strange, because Lovejoy had yet to withdraw his weapon from its holster.

"Twitch one muscle flatfoot, and you'll be chasing your head from here to Altoona!" a familiar voice growled from behind them all.

All eyes snapped around to behold the sight of the most strangely dressed man they had ever seen. His clothes were little more than a disheveled heap of rags and frayed ropes that covered him from head to toe, and amongst the fibrous chaos, various scraps of vegetation protruded. The entire ensemble was a mottled mess of varying earth tones and muted greens, as was his face, which was painted up in a solid shade of olive drab. It was a fashion disaster of epic proportions, and yet it had allowed him to hide in plain sight, mere feet away from where they had been standing all this time, without anyone so much as suspecting his presence.

"Easy now. That's it. Just be a good boy and keep those hands right where I can see them." He said as he circled around Lovejoy, keeping his own weapon squarely trained on the ex-detective. Approaching cautiously, he reached into the bodyguard's jacket and withdrew the automatic pistol, taking an appraising glance at its nickel-plated finish before tucking it into the folds of his suit.

"That's real nice now." He nodded in approval. "Now hand over the other one."

"I beg your pardon?" Lovejoy asked defensively.

"Right ankle, fuzz-boy! Let's move it!" Tommy insisted. "Hitch up those trousers and show me a little leg. I haven't seen a good burlesque show in months."

Reluctantly, and with an apologetic glance to his employer, Lovejoy did as instructed, revealing the snub-nosed .32 caliber revolver that was tucked neatly into his sock.

"Ah! Now that's what I'm talking about." Tommy remarked as he knelt down and relieved the private eye of his back-up piece. "You can have both of these back at the end of class, once you've shown that you can be nice and play well with others."

"But how did you…"

"I noticed up on deck the night we spotted the berg." Tommy answered bluntly. "You were walking a little heavy on your right side. Now there's only two reasons for a man to do that, and you look a little young to be suffering with arthritis."

"Nice work, Tommy." Jack complimented. "And nice ghillie suit, too."

"Really? You don't think it makes me look fat, do you?" Tommy asked, doing a small catwalk-like turn.

"No, your fat makes you look fat. The suit makes you look like a mulberry bush with a bad case of aphids."

"Hey! It's not easy, going green." Tommy responded with a musical tone that made Rose suspect she had just been subjected to yet another inside joke.

Cal, on the other hand, simply stood there and fumed, appearing unable to believe that he had been outflanked yet again by this common blue-collar buffoon.

"That's dirty pool, Dawson." He growled, glaring daggers at Jack.

"I'm just like you, Cal. I take every advantage I can get." Jack flatly replied. It was about time this self-absorbed baron of the business world learned that not everything in life was for sale, and that there were certain things in this world that were bigger than even him. "But if we're done with this whole song and dance routine, then may I suggest we get to the point of why we're all here. Rose?"

With eyes full of hope she looked to the dashing young man in uniform, scarcely believing that the waking nightmare she had been living for so long might finally be at an end.

"The choice is yours." He said as plainly and deliberately as he could. "You can either stay here with Cal, or you can come with me. Either way, it's entirely up to you. Take a moment to think about it if you'd like."

_Pffft! As if she really needed THAT accommodation!_

With her feet scarcely touching the ground she began to stride confidently toward Jack's dashing form, only to be yanked roughly backward when Cal refused to release his grip.

"For God's sake, Rose! Think about what you're doing!" he hissed, his tone still insistent, but lacking its normal authoritarian edge. If anything he sounded almost… pleading?

"This is madness… utter madness!" he continued. "I can give you everything you ever wanted! Provide for you every conceivable comfort of life! He offers you nothing… nothing but a life of hardship and hard work. You'll be lucky to find a job as a seamstress or as a schoolmarm. Don't you see? He can't give you anything but the few pathetic scraps that he has to his name. I can give you the world!"

"Yes, and the only cost is my freedom." Rose defiantly replied. Her voice held no hint of affection or respect, but no sign of animus or resentment either. It was as if she simply felt nothing for the man before her: The man who had fought so hard to chain her to a life she did not want, in a world where she did not belong. From his vantage point several yards away, Jack reflected that indifference, not hate, was the opposite of love. And it was indifference that perhaps best summarized his Rosebud's feelings toward her fiancé at this moment. There wasn't a dysfunctional relationship that existed between them: There was simply… nothing.

"Let us be frank with ourselves, Cal." She continued with a sigh. Neither of us is the same person that we were when we first met. I certainly know that I am not. I realize now that life is short, and precious… too precious to be wasted obsessing over things like wealth and physical comfort. It's the people we surround ourselves with that determine whether life is worth living. And I know now who I want those people to be."

With a contemplative and penetrating gaze she looked deep into the steel-gray eyes of the man who sought so often to crush her spirit beneath his heel, and in this moment of clarity found something to pity: A gaping chasm deep within his soul that he had spent years trying to fill with a lust for money and power: A Herculean effort that had ultimately proven in vain.

"It truly is a beautiful world, Cal. And a beautiful life as well." She said with heartfelt sympathy. "But I fear you'll never be able to see that beauty if you can't see past your self and your own ambitions. I pray that one day you'll be able to see that world, Cal. I honestly do pray for that. But in the mean time I must do that which is right by my own self. So I ask you, if you ever felt anything for me… anything that was real and true… please… let me go."

Green eyes locked with gray, the memory of countless arguments, awkward moments and long, lonely nights passing between them. Like two mighty warriors at the end of a lifetime spent joined in battle, they silently regarded one another, each contemplating whether the time had truly come to forever lay down their arms.

And in that moment of mutual contemplation, Cal's iron grip loosened.

Letting his now empty hand fall limply to his side, he regarded the beautiful young socialite with a hurt look in his eyes. He was like a lost puppy, Rose briefly thought, trying to come to terms with the prospect of living his life alone. She wondered if perhaps he had actually loved her after all; in his own perverse and distorted way, but loved her just the same. She would have never previously thought it possible. But in this moment, she wasn't so sure.

"Thank you." She whispered softly, managing the faintest of smiles.

And with a final glance back at the life she would soon be leaving forever, she turned and began walking up the iron road, toward the regal image of a valiant knight who had ridden to her rescue atop a winged steed. Without hesitation she approached his smiling visage, stepping up to face him with an expression of pure wonderment…

And roundly delivered a slap across his face.

Stunned by the suddenness of the unexpected blow, Jack's hand flew up to cover his now throbbing cheek, and he stared at Rose with a look of total bewilderment in his eyes.

"That, was for flying off and leaving me back on the God-forsaken ship!" she growled angrily, just before she grabbed both sides of his face and pulled him into a passionate kiss. For several seconds she held him there, savoring the taste of his lips upon her own, allowing her tongue to seek his. It wasn't until the need for air began to press upon her that she finally broke the contact between them and pulled away.

"And that," she breathlessly said, "was for coming back to save me again."

To spite the pain of her blow, Jack couldn't help but smile. That beautiful fire within her was burning as hot and as bright as it ever had. Her ordeal had not dimmed her in the least.

"So, are you ready to come, Josephine, in my flying machine?" he asked, bowing deeply as he spoke.

"I've been ready my entire life." She replied definitively.

"Then in that case, there's one little detail that needs to be addressed." Jack said turning and ascending a short ladder to retrieve a canvas bag from his plane. "Well, technically two small details, but they're somewhat related."

"And those would be?"

"That everyone who flies with our unit has to have a helmet and a handle."

"All right. I understand the need for a helmet. But what's this 'handle' of which you speak?" she asked quizzically.

"A handle: A call sign… nickname… something besides our real names that we use to identify each other in the air. For instance, I may be Jack Dawson on the ground, but up in the air I'm known as 'Badger.'"

"Ah! I think I understand now. And Tommy becomes 'Joker', does he?"

"You catch on quick."

"I try. So then what is my 'handle,' as you put it, going to be?"

"See for yourself." He stated, shoving the bag into her hands and taking a step back.

With great curiosity she stuck her hand blindly into the folds of the coarse fabric and felt something smooth and bulbous within. No surprise there. Then she pulled the object from its canvas shroud, and her jaw nearly hit the ground.

It was one of the most beautiful pieces of functional art she had ever seen: A lightweight yet stout crash helmet, it surface smooth and shining like a mirror, hand-painted in the image of rose in full bloom. The work was exquisite, and her breath caught in her throat as she ran her fingertips over the cool surface, tracing every line and shadow of the image. The blossom seemed to exist in three dimensions with every fold and bend lending itself to the illusion of something that one could reach out and touch. Even the drops of dew that appeared upon each and every petal seemed to shimmer with a life all their own. It was truly a work of art if there ever was one, and at the very front, above a short visor, a single word was spelled out in elegant, flowing script:

"Rosebud"

If ever a single word had carried more beauty upon its syllables, she didn't know what it was. To know that this was Jack's gift to her… a token of his love and a symbol of the freedom he had promised… made this simple gesture more meaningful to her than all the jewels in the entire world.

"Why Jack… I… I don't know… what… to say." She stammered in disbelief.

Jack simply broke out into one of his trademark sideways grins that she loved so much.

"Just say 'thank you' and we'll call it even." He shrugged.

"Oh, thank you. Thank you so much." she cried softly, throwing her arms around his shoulders and barely missing clocking him in the head with his own gift.

After a few moments, and a little bit of help from Jack, her new headgear was firmly in place and her chinstrap was securely fastened. With an appraising look, he declared her ready and assisted her up the short ladder that extended down from the side of the fuselage. A little more fiddling, and she was safely strapped into the rear seat, exploring the basic workings of an oxygen mask.

And then Jack looked back to the small group that still stood assembled near the front of the train, and an unexpected wave of guilt washed over him. He honestly had no rational reason to owe these people anything: Not after all that they had done. The way they had tried to smother and destroy such a beautiful flower was nothing short of criminal in his mind, and whatever hardship her leaving would bring them paled in comparison to what they truly deserved. But somehow, in spite of everything that had transpired, he couldn't help but feel just a little bit sorry for the lot of them. Ruth was losing her only child, after all. And as for Cal… Well, losing your fiancé to another man just had to suck, no matter who you were.

With a heaving breath, his shoulders sunk in resignation. Whatever he was about to do was bound to be crazy and seem unjustifiable to an outside observer, but he nonetheless felt that it was necessary… that it was the right thing to do.

"Hold tight for just a sec, Rosie." He sighed as he descended the ladder. "There's just one more loose end I've gotta tie up."

The crushed rock of the rail bed crunched underfoot as he strode confidently back to the small group. Years of training and months of combat had a way making one look calm, cool and collected after all, even when you had no idea of what you were doing. Winging things was always difficult, he had learned slowly over time, but when you were a Marine, it was a way of life: After a while, you just sort of got used to the idea.

Squaring his shoulders and stepping confidently, he stared directly into Cal's face, addressing the millionaire not as a superior being, but as an equal.

"Look, Cal. I get that I'm not exactly your favorite person in the world right now." He began. "And to be perfectly honest, the feeling is pretty much mutual. But for the record, I'm not totally oblivious to the situation. I realize that I'm pretty much wrecking the deal you've put together here, and that's a tough pill to swallow no matter who you are. So maybe I can make it up to you? At least in some, small way."

"Really? You don't say?" Cal sniffed derisively, clearly unimpressed by the magnanimous gesture. "What could someone of your stature ever possibly offer that would be of value to someone like me?"

Jack sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Some people just didn't know how to accept charity.

"You're in the markets, right?" he continued, more or less ignoring Cal's snide remark.

"Excuse me?"

"The markets, Cal! You know? Stocks… bonds… T-bills… Christmas club membership? Try to keep up with me here!" he groaned, snapping his fingers for emphasis.

"Yes, of course I'm invested in the markets!" Cal condescendingly growled. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"Okay then. That's not a big deal right now. But you might want to mark your calendar, because in about seventeen years, things are going to get interesting." Jack continued to explain.

"Seventeen years? Nineteen-twenty-nine, you mean?" John Thayer inquired, reminding everyone that he and Marian were still present in the conversation.

"That's right. Mid-autumn, to be precise." Jack continued. "When that time rolls around, the market trends are going to start getting a little squirrelly. Basically, the daily tracking graphs are going to resemble a Coney Island roller coaster, and when that happens…"

"Yes?" Thayer begged, apparently giving more credence to his advice than Cal.

"Get out!"

"I beg your pardon?" Cal's head snapped around. Apparently it wasn't the conclusion he had been expecting.

"You heard me." Jack insisted. "Grab everything you've got in the market and pull it out. I don't care where you move it to: Cash… gold… commodities… stuff it in your mattress… it really doesn't matter! Just get it as far away from the market, and anything that touches the market, as you possibly can! Even banks will be pure poison! And above all else, make sure you're free and clear by late-October. That's when the sky starts falling."

Both men stared at the young soldier, trying to make sense of what they'd just been told. They knew he was speaking of a coming economic collapse, apparently of a magnitude neither of them had ever imagined. They didn't want to believe it. To even entertain the possibility of such a catastrophe bordered on economic blaspheme. But yet here this man stood, with a verified knowledge of things yet to be, assuring them that just such a calamity was not only possible, but indeed inevitable as well. Suddenly, their sheltered world of riches and regality seemed far smaller and more vulnerable than it ever had before.

"And Ruth?" Jack said, stepping over to the graying matriarch. "I know I'm not exactly on your Christmas card list either, but I've got some advice for you as well. Do you have any liquid assets? Either cash or something that can be easily converted to cash?"

"I have a little, yes." She flatly admitted. Accepting charity for this miscreant of a man was truthfully the last thing she wanted to be doing, but a person in her now vulnerable position couldn't afford to look any gift horses in the mouth. She willed herself to bite her tongue and listen.

"There's a business in New York, over in Brooklyn, called the Sperry Gyroscope Company. They've only been around for a couple of years, so not many people have heard of them yet. Do you follow me so far?"

"Yes. Go on."

"Good. Right now they make navigational equipment for ships: Stabilizers… compasses… things like that. But in the next couple of months they're gonna come out with something new. They'll call it the 'gyroscopic autopilot.' Now I know that sounds really arcane and confusing and probably doesn't mean much to you, but it's basically an instrument that allows an aircraft to fly itself… obviously a major innovation, and a pretty useful one to boot. And this is where you personally come into the story."

"Me?" Ruth quizzically asked.

"Yes, you." Jack confirmed. "You need to take whatever cash you can scrape together and buy as many shares in Sperry as you can, as soon as you can. Being virtually unknown right now, it's selling for next to nothing. But as soon as word of this new toy leaks out, it's gonna take off and head straight for the stratosphere. And trust me when I say that you'll want to be on board for the ride."

"I understand. That's Sperry Gyroscopes, you said?" Ruth confirmed, feverishly committing every last detail of the conversation to memory. If what this young man was saying was true, then she couldn't afford the chance of missing out.

"That's right… in Brooklyn: Flatbush neighborhood, to be precise." Jack confirmed. "But also remember what I told Cal. Seventeen years is the limit. Once the calendar turns over to the fall of twenty-nine, I don't care where it is or how it's doing. You'll want to drop that and whatever other stock you've got like a bad habit. Got it?"

"Yes. I understand. And thank you, Mister Dawson."

"You're very welcome, ma'am. Glad to be of service." Jack smiled and casually saluted. Whatever happened from here on out, at least he knew that his conscience would be at peace.

"Yo, Jackie! You done socializing over there, or should I start mixing up cocktails?"

"Yeah, we're done here. Spin 'em up!" Jack shouted back at Tommy, who by then had stripped out of his sniper suit and was standing by in a standard set of camouflage fatigues. With a final look at the people who had so defined his life over the few days he had known them, he turned and began casually jogging back to his plane where Rose waited patiently by.

"What was that all about?" she asked as he climbed up and plopped himself down into the front seat, removing his officer's cap and donning his familiar helmet with its white and brown stripes.

"Just engaging in a little insider trading was all."

"What?"

"Don't worry. It's not illegal… yet."

"Why doesn't that make me feel any better?"

"I'll explain it all later."

"You always say that, but you never do."

"That's because it's not later enough yet. Now are you ready to fly?"

"I've never been more ready for anything. Let's get the hell out of here!"

Glancing back over his shoulder, Jack couldn't help but be surprised by the bluntness of Rose's language. The more he got to know her, the more he realized that she had not only been delivered to the wrong address, but to the wrong era as well. She'd have no trouble fitting into the 21st Century.

Returning his eyes forward, he glanced across the field and saw Tommy's bird lifting up from the ground, shrugging off the camouflage netting that they had both thrown over it prior to the train's arrival. It was time to make like a shepherd and get the flock out of there.

Working his way quickly through the start-up procedure, the clicking of switches and the humming of computers soon filled the cramped cockpit. The banks of older analog-style gauges began to glow and the radar screen flickered to life. Soon, the familiar shapes of the heads-up display began to dance their way across the windscreen once again, and as the whine of turbines spinning up began to surround him, he knew that his bird was ready.

"Systems up… All readings nominal…" he robotically called out. "Nav is online… Compressors at speed… Go for engine start in three… two… one… _Contact!"_

Flicking the ignition switch with his forefinger, the Rolls-Royce turbofan responded with a roar, and soon they were rising slowly from the ground above a cloud of dust and billowing waves of grass.

The sensation was completely foreign to her, and yet entirely exciting as well. The act of defying gravity's unyielding pull… of floating effortlessly above the ground without any form of tether or support… set her heart to pounding and her spirit soaring. And their journey to the future had only just begun.

Through the open link of the cockpit intercom, Jack could hear Rose's breathing quicken as they lifted off from the ground. He smiled beneath his mask, contemplating just what an experience such a thing must be for someone of her background. Heavier-than-air flight was still a novelty in this era, and the only flying machines capable of vertical take off were found in the pages of mythology. The Greek Pegasus… the flying carpets of Arabian folklore… ancient Chinese emperors and their flying thrones… such were the closest points of comparison to the machine they were now riding. It truly was unlike anything that anyone had ever seen.

…And he hadn't even brought the landing gear up yet.

As he swung the nose around and began following Tommy along an ascending path to the east, he silently wondered what other thoughts must be going through his passenger's head.

* * *

So this was what it meant to fly.

For nearly as long as she could remember, she had dreamed of such a thing. As a little girl, when the trials of life and the pressures of being a perfect aristocratic princess became too much to bare, she would retreat to her upstairs bedroom. And there, from the picture window overlooking the gardens of her family's estate, she would watch the birds with envy in her heavy heart. How she had longed to be like them, yearning for the ability to simply take wing and leave her rigid, oppressive life behind. To float upon the breeze, traveling to wherever the wind would take her. To land and put down new roots in a new place. This had always been her impossible dream.

And now, as she watched the folds of the Adirondack hills falling away below her, she could feel that dream becoming reality. It seemed unbelievable… unreal even… to be experiencing such a thing. And yet here she sat, very much awake, and living that very dream.

She gasped as the right wing dropped and Jack swung the Harrier through a broad, eastward turn. Continuing their ascent with Tommy just ahead and to the left, the broad valley of the Hudson River soon came into view, while to the north, the placid surface of Lake Champlain could just be discerned on the horizon. Minutes ticked past, and it wasn't long before they were crossing over the coast where an offshore weather front hid the mighty Atlantic from view beneath its billowing white folds.

It was nothing short of mind-blowing… to gaze out at the other side of the clouds. They seemed a far cry from the gloomy, gray shroud that she had always detested so. From above, they appeared white and pure… tranquil… serene… Like the realm of angels rather than a symbol of depression and darkness.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"Huh?" Jack's inquiry broke her from her reverie.

"You seemed pretty engrossed back there." He observed. "Anything you wanna talk about?"

"Oh, it's just… I guess I've spent my whole life dreaming of a thing such as this." She whimsically explained, gently pressing her fingertips against the cool smoothness of the canopy. "Being able to see the world from on high. To not be bound by gravity… or reality. It was always my silent wish, and now to actually be here, experiencing it…" She left the remainder of her sentence hang unspoken. Further explanation was unnecessary.

"Yeah, it's a pretty great place to work, I'll tell you what." Jack softly chuckled. "As offices go, it's not the most roomy of accommodations, but there's just no beating the view."

"No doubt."

"So, you want to fly her?"

"WHAT?" Rose nearly shrieked at the question. Had he gone completely insane?

"Okay! First of all… indoor voice, please! Secondly, I was wondering if you'd like to take the controls for a bit."

"Are you out of your corn-fed mind?"

"Hand to God! I'm offering you the chance to fly this bird."

"Is that even possible?"

"Well that stick back there between your knees doesn't ring for the butler."

"But I… I… I don't think that I… I mean… I can't..."

"Sure you can! I'll be right here with you the whole time. Just follow my instructions and we'll have you barrel-rolling with the best of 'em in no time at all."

"I… I still don't know…"

"Do you trust me?"

The question surprised her, but yet she barely had to think about her answer.

"Yes. Of course I trust you." She admitted softly.

"Do you trust that I won't let anything dangerous happen?"

"Yes."

"Then what's there to be afraid of?"

Silently, she considered this, and quickly concluded that Jack had a point. He would protect her, just as he had been doing since they had first met. She could trust him with her very life, and rest assured that he would never let her down.

"Alright. What do I do first?" she finally asked.

"First off, take that stick thing in your right hand." Jack began to explain. "It's called the 'yoke,' and it controls most of the plane's motions. Specifically, it controls pitch and roll. That's up and down, and side to side respectively."

"Okay, I've got it. Now what?"

"Now we're going to work the roll axis a little bit. Keeping a firm but gentle grip on the yoke, push it slowly to the left."

Rose did as she was instructed, and her heart fairly leapt into her throat as the attack jet responded by dropping its left wing and offering a stunning view of the clouds below.

"That's good. Now we reverse the roll by bringing the yoke back to the right, and release when the wings are level again. That's right… just like that. You're doing great, Rosie."

Over the next several minutes, Jack explained the various ways in which a fixed-wing aircraft could move. He showed her the different positions of the yoke, and how those could be combined with the rudder pedals to create looping, graceful turns. With Tommy giving them a wide berth to maneuver in, it wasn't long before she was dipping and climbing with ease, and tracing out elegant figure eights across the sky.

"Oh my God! I'm flying! I'm really flying!" she gasped in astonishment. Standing on the ship's bow with her arms spread wide had been an exhilarating experience in its own right, but it was less than nothing when compared to this. This was true flight… The sort of flight previously reserved only for birds and angels. It was surreal to the point of being unbelievable, and yet it was here, right in front of her, and all around her. The dream of a young lifetime had come true, and she owed it all to one person: The person sitting directly in front of her.

With untold love and adoration in her emerald gaze, she looked forward into the back of his helmet. And as if able to sense her eyes upon him, Jack turned over his shoulder to return that gaze. Without a single word being spoken, entire volumes of dialogue passed between them, each pouring out to the other all of their love and devotion and hopes and dreams. In the span of just a few moments an entire lifetime's worth of longing and desire was conveyed, and each understood perfectly what the other had said.

"What say we go find ourselves an aircraft carrier?" Jack finally broke the moment after several seconds of enraptured silence had passed.

"I'm with you." Rose smiled, settling back into her seat and relinquishing control of the plane back to Jack. "Although I must admit, I'm not quite clear on precisely what this 'aircraft carrier' of which you speak is."

"Don't worry, sweetie. I'll…"

"I know… I know! You'll explain later!" she huffed, crossing her arms and slouching deep into the cushion of the ejection seat. "And I swear… one of these days I'm going to hold you to that!"

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Wow! Exactly 100 pages of ten-point type, according to Microsoft Word! Somewhere along the way, this story sure did turn into something I wasn't expecting. I'm not quite sure what that something is, but it's certainly something. (Hopefully not a piece of something!)

And now the obligatory explanations, so all of you keeping score at home won't be scratching your heads until you're brains itch.

_Penn Station:_ The major inter-city train station and commuter rail hub in New York, Pennsylvania Station has been a fixture in central Manhattan for more than a century. Originally designed and built by the firm of McKim, Mead & White, the structure was nothing short of monumental in its scale, covering two complete city blocks. Fronted by a colonnade entrance in the Doric style, its pink granite facade concealed a structure of vaulted glass atriums, allowing the entire facility to be bathed in natural light. From the main concourse, ornate stairs of cast iron with brass appointments led down to the boarding platforms, which for logistical purposes were segregated into "arrival" and "departure" sections. Trains entered the station via a set of tunnels that passed beneath the Hudson River, allowing the valuable real estate above to be developed for other purposes. Of course such underground operations precluded the use of traditional steam locomotives whose exhaust gasses would quickly asphyxiate any nearby person. But the railroad would resolve this issue by pioneering the use of electric locomotives, making the Pennsylvania Railroad one of the world's leaders in the use of electrified main-line rail operations for decades to come.

Officially opened to the public in 1910, Penn Station served as a grand entryway into the city and was widely regarded as an architectural marvel, far eclipsing the nearby Grand Central Station of the New York Central Railroad, which really wasn't so grand by comparison. Many thought that such a monolithic structure would stand for centuries, but they were tragically proven wrong in the early 1960s when soaring real estate prices and the decline of passenger rail service in a post-jet age world forced the Pennsylvania Railroad to rethink their relationship with the station that bore their name.

Deciding that the only the platforms themselves were necessary for railroad operations, the company sold off the air rights above the site, and the great cathedral of commerce was slated for demolition. Even as plans were set into motion, many thought it impossible that such a landmark building could ever fall, but such assumptions were proven false when the first blow of the wrecking ball was struck, and the great granite edifice was slowly reduced to rubble.

Today, the former station site is occupied by the Madison Square Garden Arena. Meanwhile, far beneath the cheering crowds and sporting stardom, the platforms still exist, and the trains still roll.

_The Thayer Family:_ John Borland Thayer Jr. was born on April 21st of 1862. A graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, he served as captain of the school's baseball team in 1879, but was better known for his cricket skills and was widely considered to be one of the best players in the world at the time. Following his retirement from the game, he entered the business world and eventually became a vice-president with the Pennsylvania Railroad.

On November 9th of 1893 he married Marian Longstreth Morris, the daughter of an old-money Philadelphia family, and together they would go on to have four children, the oldest of which they named Jack Borland Thayer III.

Returning from Europe where he, Marian and Jack Jr. had been guests of the American Counsel-General in Berlin, John booked first class passage on the Titanic. Following the collision, and a personal assurance from Thomas Andrews that the stricken ship didn't have "much over an hour to live," he made certain that his wife and maid were seated in a lifeboat, but insisted that he himself would make no such attempt at escape. He was last seen standing along the mid-ship rail, just aft of Lifeboat # 7, looking "pale and determined" by one person's account. His body, if recovered, was never identified.

His son Jack also remained on deck during the sinking, but would survive after diving from the port side of the ship in its final moments and scrambling aboard the capsized Collapsible B along with Second Officer Charles Lightoller.

_Track Torpedoes:_ A type of signaling device used by train crews for nearly as long as there have been railroads. Typically, these are small packets of wax-coated paper with metal tabs extending from opposite sides. Inside this packet are a few ounces of a low explosive such as black powder. When needing to signal an approaching train to danger, a person can lay this packet atop the rail, bending the tabs around the railhead to ensure that it remains in place. When a train approaches, the compression of the wheels running over the torpedo will detonate the powder. The result is an explosion not large enough to damage the track or equipment, but still loud enough to catch the crew's attention.

Typically, torpedoes are used as part of the "flagging" process, which was almost universal in the days before the development of automatic signaling systems. When a train was stopped in a way that obstructed the tracks, flagmen would be dispatched from either end. As per procedure, these men would pace off one-and-a-half miles from their train and place two torpedoes on the rail, several yards apart. They would then retrace their steps for a distance of half a mile and stand guard with a red flag, (or a red lantern if it was dark out), exactly one mile from their charge. If an approaching train failed to notice the torpedoes, the waving flagman would serve as a secondary line of defense.

Flagging has become something of a lost art today, as modern systems such as global positioning and centralized traffic control have largely automated the task of train protection. But along many secondary tracks where such technology has yet to be implemented, flagging is still a part of everyday life on the railroad.

_Earthrise:_ Anyone who lived through the 1960s or has studied 20th Century history will likely recognize the short video that Rose watched while confined aboard the train. It's a recording of the video feed streamed back to earth by the crew of Apollo 8 as they circled the far side of the moon on December 24th of 1968. The Christmas Eve broadcast from 70 miles above the lunar surface has since become one of the most iconic images in human history. Replayed countless times in the decades since, the voices of Frank Borman, James Lovell and Bill Anders reciting the Genesis account of creation as images of a partly shadowed earth slowly rising above the lunar surface play out across the screen remains a powerfully emotional experience for any and all who experience it.

_Ghillie Suit:_ A highly adaptive form of camouflage, normally used by game hunters and military snipers. Typically, the suit consists of a net or cloth over-garment, covered in loose strips of burlap, cloth or twine. The resulting amorphous tangle of varying textures and colors serves to break up the human outline of the wearer and provides a certain resemblance to the surrounding foliage. Additionally, such suits can be augmented with material taken from the operational environment, such as leaves, twigs and branches.

Derived from the Gaelic term for "servant," ghillie suits were first used by Scottish game wardens charged with enforcing anti-poaching laws on royal hunting preserves. The concealment provided by the suits was so effective, it was soon discovered, that a poacher could be standing right next to a warden's ever-watchful position and never suspect that he wasn't alone.

Today, the ghillie suit is standard issue for scout/snipers in most of the world's major militaries. Typically, it is the only military-issue uniform not standardized in it's appearance.

Well we're getting petty close to the end of our little tale here, folks. Just a short epilogue chapter to tie up a few loose ends and it'll be a wrap. I'd like to thank everyone for sticking around for the duration. I know that sometimes these trips down the literary lane can get a little bumpy, but it's the bumps that make the trip interesting, and can sometimes even affect the ultimate destination. Let's hear it for life's little uncertainties!

You all know the details of my review/reply policy by now, so I won't bore you by explaining it again. Needless to say, everyone stay safe out there, and I'll catch you all next time on the flip side!

Later gators!

Nutzkie…


	8. A New Beginning, A New World

**Usual Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

Alright! We all know the drill, so there's no need to go into a great deal of detail here. After all, disclaimers such as this are the literary equivalent of a speed bump at the end of your driveway. So let's just get through this quick and clean, and then move on to the reason that we're all _really_ here.

_Titanic_ is the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox, and about a half-dozen or so other production studios who managed to snag a piece of that action back in the late nineties. I personally don't own squat, so if you're ticked off and looking to sue, good luck, 'cause you can't get blood from a turnip. I hope you hire an expensive lawyer and run up a _huge_ legal bill, dip wad! (Gawd, being broke can be so liberating!)

Beyond that, anything not found in the movie or on the ocean floor could be construed as mine, I suppose. Although I'm sure there's some legal-eagle out there somewhere who would relish the opportunity to argue otherwise.

In short, the movie belongs to Jimmy Cameron, the profits belong to the studios, the Titanic belongs to the ages, this software belongs to Bill Gates, my kidneys belong to my bookie, and all your base belong to us!

Onward and upward…

* * *

**~ Chapter Eight ~**

_**A New Beginning… A New World**_

The world had sure gone off and gotten itself in a damned hurry.

As far back as she could remember, automobiles were a little more than a novelty: Expensive toys for well-to-do aristocrats sorely in need of a hobby. On any public thoroughfare, they would be outnumbered by horses at a rate of at least ten to one. To even see one was for most people, a rare treat indeed. They were expensive and cantankerous innovations of the industrial age, about as useful as a waterproof sponge, and as reliable as a candle in a hurricane.

But now they suddenly seemed to be everywhere. All around her, no matter which way she turned, they were there. Packed together bumper-to-bumper and fender-to-fender… in all manner of sizes, shapes and colors… they roared past at frightening speeds atop a smooth surface of strange, black stone.

Overwhelmed by the choreographed chaos that surrounded her, she tried averting her gaze upward, but was only met by new sources of bewilderment. In her mind, the Woolworth Building stood as the tallest man-made structure in the world. She was painfully aware of this, as Hockley steel had been used in its construction and Cal had never tired of boasting about that fact. In every photo she had ever seen on the subject it had dominated the New York skyline, but it now stood almost invisible, overwhelmed by the surrounding towers of concrete and glass.

And looking down the street toward the south, the tallest of them all was slowly rising from the banks of the East River. A monumental latticework of steel beams and cast concrete, it already seemed to dominate the skyline, even as it yet pushed upward to its final height of nearly eighteen hundred feet. Jack had called it the "Freedom Tower," and through his brief explanation she had sensed a faint hint of emotion in his voice. It led her to suspect that there was some sort of deeper meaning to this place… that it was something more than a simple feat of engineering… but she held her tongue and said nothing. He would tell her when he felt they both were ready.

She returned her gaze to ground level and took in the world on a more human scale once more. Aside from the automobiles there were people… so many people… all of them dashing about, rushing in and out of nearby buildings, jumping in and out of taxis… Everyone seemed wanting to be somewhere else, and needing to be there ten minutes ago.

At first she had been nervous about stepping out into a public place in her present state. The dress code of the Edwardian Bourgeoisie class wasn't exactly in step with the present times after all, and standing on a public sidewalk in a corset and a dress that left everything to the imagination wasn't exactly a good way of blending in. But she had quickly discovered that such worries were unjustified. Most passers by were so absorbed with their personal concerns that they failed to even notice her. And if some of the outfits she had seen were any indication at all, her current wardrobe was downright tame compared to the latest fashion trends.

But rules of fashion and fashion disasters aside, there was one thing that stood out above all else in her mind. It was something that perhaps no one else amongst the literally tens of thousands of people that surrounded her at that moment would ever think unusual. And yet to her, it jumped out and announced its presence with a primordial scream, pushing aside all other details of the scene: The women.

All around her throughout the crowd were women. Women wearing suits… women carrying briefcases… women dashing in and out of the various office high-rises as they bumped shoulders with men of equally professional appearance. They were doctors… lawyers… stockbrokers… financial analysts… advertising executives… They were every manner of trade and profession that one could think of, working side-by-side with the men of this world not as second-class citizens, but as equals, enjoying every ounce of credit and respect that came with the jobs they did: Recognition that the male persuasion had once reserved as its own private domain.

It was true, what Jack had said. The world had moved on in the century since the sinking of the Titanic, and a far more enlightened society had been born above its rusting remains. There was a shared social conscience now, and a sense of social justice that simply did not exist in 1912. Humanity had grown up.

And it was all yet another revelation in a long series stretching back to the moment two days before when Jack had swept down from the sky and whisked her away to this brave and wondrous new world. After their impromptu flying lesson over the coast, Jack had taken them on a southeasterly course for more than an hour before dropping back below the clouds and gently setting his bird down aboard what had to be the largest thing she had ever dared to imagine. It was a ship by definition, but to her it seemed more like a floating city. It had a flat and open deck with an abbreviated superstructure topped by a towering mainmast, and Jack had assured her that her sense of perspective was not playing tricks on her. This vessel was every bit large enough to swallow the mighty Titanic whole.

…Although she was still left wondering whom the heck this _Carl Vinson_ fellow was.

"It's a lot to take in, isn't it?"

The soothing tone of his voice was like sweet music to her ears, and she felt his gentle hands slip comfortingly over her shoulders. It was those amazing hands that she perhaps found most fascinating about him: Artists hands, slightly calloused from innumerable acts of creation, and yet capable of so much more. They were a perfect metaphor for the living enigma that was Jack Dawson.

He could turn a blank sheet of paper into an artistic masterpiece in minutes, and yet he could also kill casually from beyond the horizon. His touch could set her whole body to tingling and light her soul aflame with desire, and yet it had already mastered technological wonders of which she had yet to even conceive. He could create and destroy in equal measure. He was both a sensitive artist, and a battle-hardened warrior… A lover and a fighter. How two such beings could ever exist in the same body was a concept that never ceased to amaze her.

Having Jack's reassuring presence behind her calmed her nerves like nothing else could. She leaned backward and melted lightly into him as he drew her close, burying his face into her scarlet locks.

"It is." She admitted with a contented sigh. "But I can handle it all."

"I'm sure you can." Jack whispered into her hair. "So what impresses you the most?"

"Honestly, and I know this sounds strange, but I think it's the way people dress." She admitted with a shrug. "Some of the clothes here are so revealing. And others are just plain outlandish. I take it the rules of fashion have fallen by the wayside somewhat?"

"Not just fallen by the wayside: Been tossed out a twelfth story window, trampled on the sidewalk and run over by a taxi." He admitted with a shrug. "Take that woman over there for instance."

"You mean the one in the red, patent leather raincoat?"

"Yeah, her. Now doesn't she just look like a horny fire hydrant to you?"

She couldn't help but burst out in giggles over Jack's cutting remark. His words were so silly, yet so true. Sometimes his artistic creativity could be simply boundless.

"That's not a very nice thing to say!" she laughed, turning in his embrace and giving him a playful punch on the shoulder.

"Are you saying you disagree with my assessment?"

"Well, no. But it's still not very nice."

"Fair 'nuff. So other than that, how are you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected, I suppose." She admitted with a sigh and a resigned slouching of her shoulders. "To tell you the truth, I've never felt so dated and inadequate. I mean, just a moment ago I saw a young couple over there talking about a new earring and a new tattoo."

"And you thought the wrong words were coming out of the wrong mouths?"

"Precisely." She sighed dejectedly. "I feel so thoroughly old."

"Well that's because you are old, Rosebud." Jack informed her with a chuckle. "You may look young on the outside, but by our calendars you're actually a hundred and seventeen! That makes you the oldest person in history, this side of the Bible at least!"

"My good man, you have an odd way of trying to make a girl feel better about herself." She panned in reply, her eyes informing him that she was less than amused.

"Well, I wouldn't worry about it too much." He laughed off her concerns. "Age is just a number, after all. What really counts is how you feel. As long as you feel young at heart, nothing else really matters."

"Yes, I suppose you're right." She sighed. "But the idea is still going to take some getting used to."

"I know, Rosebud. I know."

He slipped his arms protectively around her waist and she slipped hers around his chest, nestling herself comfortably under his chin, savoring the closeness between them. And although they were standing on a crowded sidewalk in the heart of one of the largest cities on earth, they quickly found themselves alone, the outside world melting away until they were the only two people in the world. They each closed their eyes and concentrated on the other's breathing, and at once nothing else existed or mattered. This was the meaning of life: The love that they shared and the promise of a future together. The businessmen and billionaires… the politicians and princes… they could all have the world if they wanted it. For the two of them, everything they needed was right there in front of them, a lifetime of sustenance brimming behind each other's eyes.

"So, where do we go from here?" Rose finally asked after several blissful seconds. With the moment broken, the roar of traffic and the shouts of passers-by came bursting back to their consciousness with surprising intensity.

"Well, there's several places on the list." Jack pondered, thoughtfully stroking his chin. "We still need to get you the proper documents so you'll fit in here. That means sitting down with my contacts as the Social Security Administration and the I.N.S. Fortunately they're both in the same building, so it won't be too difficult. Then there's the voter registration people, but that can be done later. Getting the proper paperwork is the most important thing right now."

"All right. How do we do that?"

"First stop would be the Federal Building uptown. We'll need to hail a cab." He said, taking her by the hand and leading them both toward the curb. With a wave of his hand he beckoned one of the gleaming yellow machines to stop, and in a most chivalrous manner, assisted her inside.

"Fed building. North side." He succinctly informed the driver, and within moments they were moving through traffic down one of the many concrete canyons that so defined the iconic urban jungle that was the Big Apple.

Looking out the window at the eternal city, Rose couldn't help but be enthralled. Craning her gaze upward, she saw that wood and brick had given way to concrete and steel as the building materials of choice, allowing architects to push their creations toward unimaginable heights. And above even that, one of the glimmering machines that had replaced the great ocean liners of her time soared along its eastward path toward Europe. The thought of people cramming themselves three hundred at a time into an aluminum tube and rocketing through the stratosphere at three-quarters the speed of sound was at once exhilarating and terrifying, and yet here it stood, an everyday occurrence for those of this time, as commonplace and mundane as a trip to the market.

The world had grown so large it seemed, moving at such a high rate of speed, and yet she remained so small and slow by comparison. How would she ever be able to adapt? How could a person like her ever truly fit into a world such as this?

Then she felt Jack's hand slip itself reassuringly around hers, and all of her worries instantly melted away.

"It's a lot to deal with Rosie, I know." He whispered softly. "Adjusting will be a long and bumpy road, and it's not gonna happen overnight. You'll have good days and bad days, and sometimes progress will be painfully slow. But always remember that you're not alone in this. You've got me watching your back, and if you ever need a hand with anything, you only have to let me know. We're in this together. I really mean that. Wherever the road should happen to lead us, I'm right here beside you."

Turning her gaze from the window, she locked her eyes with his, drinking in all of the love and devotion that dwelt there. She could get lost in those eyes… and spend an eternity swimming in their everlasting warmth. Even now it still floored her that such joy and happiness could be found in the soul of a single person. Just how the heck was it that he could be so damn wonderful all the time?

Leaning across the back seat of the cab, she nestled into him once more, sighing in utter contentment as his strong arms snaked their way around her and protectively held her close. There was no doubt about it in her mind: This was home. Perhaps more of a home than her family's estate or her own era had ever been. And as long as Jack was indeed beside her, she could deal with everything else. He was her sustenance… her strength… her guiding star… And by looking to him, she would always find her way home.

As the cab drove on, she burrowed deeper into his embrace, closing her eyes and concentrating solely on him. The sound of his breathing… the rhythm of his heartbeat… every part of him was something to be savored and cherished. Such thoughts brought a smile to her face, and with a sudden wave of drowsiness washing over her, she muttered the words she had not spoken since they had parted ways on the stern: The heartfelt declaration that he had been unable to hear.

"I love you so much."

A dramatic, pregnant pause hung heavy in the air for several moments. But her heart nearly skipped a beat when she heard his reply in an equally heartfelt measure.

"I love you too, Rosie. I love you too."

**~ The End ~**

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**Author's Notes:**

And there you have it folks! A hundred and five pages… 59,796 words… and more time spent on Google than any human being should ever admit to. All in all, final proof that the secret to enjoying your job is having a hobby that's worse! Personally, I'd like to thank all of you for sticking around for the duration. I know that I can get a little carried away at times with all the technical minutia, so when readers are able to get past that and hang with the story, it really means a lot.

And speaking of technical minutia…

_Woolworth Building:_ Designed in 1910 by renowned architect Cass Gilbert, this neo-Gothic style tower was commissioned by retail magnate Frank Woolworth as the national headquarters for his five-and-dime empire, and at 57 stories in height was the tallest building in the world upon completion.

Dubbed the "Cathedral of Commerce" for its architectural resemblance to many Gothic cathedrals of Europe. It reigned as the world's tallest structure for seventeen years until being surpassed by the both the Chrysler Building and the tower at # 40 Wall Street in 1930. In 1966 it was placed on the National Register of Historic Landmarks.

Now admittedly, I'm stretching my dates somewhat by using the Woolworth Building in this way. The titanic sank in 1912, a whole year and ten days prior to the building's completion. But I consider this to be a minor hitch. For by the spring of 1912, the framework of the tower would have been very close to "topping out," and would have almost certainly exceeded the height of the Metropolitan Life Building at Madison Avenue and East 23rd Street, making it the world's tallest structure. Even in its incomplete form, the Woolworth would have dominated the skyline, and been an impressive sight indeed.

_U.S.S. Carl Vinson (CVN-70):_ The third member of the United States Navy's Nimitz-Class, the Carl Vinson is named for Representative Carl Vinson, a Democrat from the state of Georgia who was the first politician to serve 50 years in the national Congress and whose strong advocacy of naval power while in office garnered him the title "Father of the Two-Ocean Navy."

Commissioned on March 13th of 1982, the Vinson stretches 1,092 feet long and boasts a gross tonnage of 101,300 tons. Nuclear power from twin Westinghouse reactors can propel the ship at a sustained speed of over 30 knots and provide creature comforts to an overall crew of nearly 6,000 souls.

Now for those of you keeping score at home, that's quite a tally to behold. It's nearly a quarter again longer than the Titanic and more than twice the weight, with a 50% increase in top speed! If one were to simply remove the Titanic's funnels and masts, the entire majestic liner could be dropped inside the Vinson's hull like a Russian nesting doll, still leaving enough room to comfortably replace the flight deck above it.

Eat your hearts out, Harland & Wolff! The boys down at Newport News Shipyard own your sorry Irish butts!

Well that's a wrap, as they say in the movie biz. Once again, I'd like to thank each and every one of you for tagging along on this little ride. Life's more fun when you've got friends along, wouldn't you say?

As far as future projects, I unfortunately can't say that I've got anything definitive lined up. There're a few general ideas floating around in my head, but nothing solid enough to even generate an outline, let alone an actual story. I suppose I'll just wait and see if things eventually begin to coalesce, but for right now I can't say anything for certain.

As always, reviews are both appreciated and reciprocated. It's the least I can do for anyone who takes the time to send his or her thoughts along.

Stay cool out there, fellow web-o-philes! Catch you all out in cyberspace!

_Nutzkie…_


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